


With a Heart as Willing

by kzal



Series: The Stars Hold Not Our Destiny [2]
Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2017-12-17 23:19:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 68,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kzal/pseuds/kzal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Toby Williams didn't know he had a sister until a mysterious letter—accompanied by some very real money—informed him of her existence. When she shows up on his doorstep with a stolen child, he gets back the chance he lost: to know his sister... unless the Goblin King shows up to complicate things. Sequel to <em>As Easy Mayst Thou Fall</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Happy New Year

_January 2, 2011, 12:57 AM_

"I'm coming! I'm coming! God, hold your fucking horses. It's one in the morning!"

Toby yanked the door open, with some annoyance. It was never a good sign when someone was banging on your door after midnight. On his front step stood a young woman, something like his own age, wearing a bulky coat and carrying two huge duffel bags. She was also wearing way too much eye makeup.

"Toby!" she said. "Oh thank God." She pushed past him, into the apartment, and he moved back automatically. Who was she? "I'm so sorry I couldn't make it for Christmas. I got Above, but not to America."

"Christmas?" He blinked, a bit stupidly, and then he realized. A week ago, he'd spent seven hours standing around in the cold, in the park, and nothing had happened. "You're her, aren't you? You're my sister Sarah?" She looked far too young, maybe a year his senior, if that, but hadn't he thought on his own that that might happen?

"And I needed to be at your place, now, anyway, not your parents'," she went on, as though she hadn't heard. "You're the only one who might understand."

"Understand what? You're not making any sense. Are you Sarah?"

"What? Yes. I'm Sarah." She had dropped the bags, and she looked up at him again. There was something very strange about her eyes, in addition to the makeup; he couldn't quite put a finger on it. "Look, I'm sorry to just barge in here like this but I need—"

A strangled, quiet cry came from beneath her coat, and she unbuttoned it swiftly, shrugging it off to let it drop to the floor.

"Sssh, precious," she whispered, "I've got you." He saw that she had a baby strapped to her chest, young by the look of it, maybe six months old? He wasn't a very good judge. She was holding it in one of those sling things. She let the child grip her hand, stroking one finger down its cheek. "I know I'm not mama, little one, but you're safe with me." She closed her eyes, swallowed. "You're safe with me."

"Okay, what the fuck—" She glared at him, over the child's head, and he tried again. "Seriously, what are you doing here?"

She sighed. "I don't have anywhere else to go." She looked away. "Jareth... he can do this thing where people just accept him, just go along with it, even without money. I don't know how he does it. I can't just make people give me things up here. And I had to come all the way from Crete, with the baby. That's why it took me so long. I can 'port, and pictures work well enough, but it's exhausting. By the end I would've given someone their dreams for a plane ticket, if I could."

"From... what? Where? Look, I know you wrote that you were in Fairyland or something, but Crete? And who's Jareth?"

"Shit," she said, which he found rather hypocritical, since she'd glared at him for swearing. "Don't say his name. Call him... I don't know. I'll come up with something later. Hell, we can call him 'that rat.'" She sighed. "Hoggle would like that. Anyway. He's... my... partner."

"Your partner?" This was just getting more and more confusing. "Your partner in what? In crime? Did you steal that baby?"

She blinked at him, like a deer in headlights, and he started edging his hand towards his pocket, for his phone. Maybe he should call 911.

"Don't," she said, when his hand disappeared. "No, I didn't steal her… at least, not from her mom or her family. Listen, I told you where I've been. You got the letter. You read the book. You went to the park. I felt it. And even if you hadn't, the money was real, right? Tell me you didn't waste it."

"I—I haven't spent it, yet," he said. This conversation had just taken a very strange turn; he'd been on the offensive, but somehow she had regained authority. "I was waiting for something important."

She smiled. "Good for you." The baby, who had quieted under her earlier touch, began to cry, again. "I need to feed her," she said. "I stole some formula. It's in the bag. Can we get that ready? Then I promise I'll answer your questions. I know this is all a bit strange to you."

In the kitchen, she dumped out one of the bags, which seemed to contain nothing but baby supplies, some of which were labeled in foreign languages. Practiced hands measured formula, heated water.

"I used to do this for you," she said, testing the temperature on her wrist before offering the bottle to the infant.

"About that," he replied, slowly. "Why don't I remember?"

"Because I gave it up. All of me. When I chose to go Underground. I didn't even know if you'd get the money. I'm glad that worked—I had to put it in your name, not leave anything of me on the account."

"The letter stayed."

"Yeah, I imagine my thesis is around somewhere too, but no one reads it. Pity, I worked hard on that." She shrugged. "Well, I worked hard on most of it." Without an invitation, she walked out of the kitchen, settling herself on his small couch. He followed, determined to get some answers. At least she seemed talkative.

"So… who's the kid? You said you didn't steal her from her mom or her family… and I'll trust you on that... but who _did_ you steal her from?"

"Caught that, did you?" she chuckled. "Always knew you'd be a smart one. I stole her from my partner."

"That Ja—"

"Don't!" She shot him a warning glance, both hands still occupied with the baby. "He might hear you. He can do that. And yeah, him."

"You call him your partner," he said, slowly. "Your partner in… what?"

She laughed, a little bitterly. "Not crime, Toby. I picked that word because… well, he's not my husband—we aren't married—and he hasn't been my lover for some time. But I'm still… his." She sighed, and smiled, somewhere between wistful and resigned. "And he's mine, I suppose."

"So... you stole a baby... from your ex-lover who..." Suddenly, Toby felt very, very slow. He knew who she'd gone away with, and he'd read the little red book. "Your ex-lover who steals babies for a living."

"Not so much steal as..." She shrugged. "It's a long story. But it's not stealing. And yeah, that's about it."

"So someone wished that kid away?"

Looking sober, she nodded. "Yes. Her mother. Poor kid was only sixteen... her family kicked her out when she got pregnant, and then the father bailed on her too." She lifted the child to her shoulder and began to pat her back. "She actually tried the Labyrinth, despite all her troubles with the kid, but she didn't make it. I guess she's back in her perfect teenage life, now." The baby gave a little burp, and Sarah lowered her to her chest, rocking her gently. "Almost makes me miss high school. God, never thought I'd say that."

"Gossip is a bit simpler than real life, that kind of thing?" Toby laughed; he'd felt that way too, a few times. He missed college even more. "Even though it felt like the end of the world at the time."

"I'm sorry I missed that for you, Toby," she said, quietly.

"Ahh, don't—look, I don't remember you being around ever, so don't worry about it, okay? It seems like you had... something else to do. Though you haven't got around to explaining why you are stealing babies from your baby-stealing ex-lover."

"Can—can you stop calling him that? It's not as simple as you're making it sound, and it—I mean, I—nevermind. Just. Partner, okay?"

"Sure, whatever." He yawned, then; a wide, jaw-cracking motion, and scrubbed his hand across his face. The adrenaline from the door-knocking was wearing off. "Listen... Sarah... You said you don't have anywhere else to go?" Mutely, she shook her head. "'Cause you're on the run or some shit. Right. Okay. I only got the one bed, but I can make up the couch for you. You got somewhere in that giant bag to stash the kid?"

"No... but hang on, maybe I can..." She frowned for a moment, and closed her eyes, concentrating, and then flicked her hand down and back up, like she had a yo-yo. She opened her eyes and looked at her empty hand. "Damn. One more try. He makes it look so _easy_." She made the flicking motion again, and this time, in her hand, she held a small, clear, glass ball. Sleight of hand? "Not enough for a full crib," she said, holding it up to the light. "But I think I can..." She flipped it off her fingers and a simple, small bassinet appeared on the living room floor. "There." She sounded satisfied. "She'll be too old for it as soon as she rolls over, but I should be able to focus up something bigger in a few days."

Holy fuck. She made a glass ball into a bassinet.

"You can do—magic?"

"Yeah." She smiled, a bit sheepish. "I was expecting more of a reaction, actually."

"I think I'm a bit too tired. And a bit too stunned." He blinked again, shaking his head. "We can talk about this... tomorrow. All of it." He got a blanket from the hall closet and a pillow from his bed, and handed them over. "Bathroom's down the hall. Good night... sis."

* * *

Toby flopped back into his bed. In the other room, he could hear the girl—Sarah—puttering around a little bit, but after a while, the noises stopped.

Sarah. The girl from the letter was here, in his apartment. Here, in his apartment, and doing magic, with a baby she had stolen from the Goblin King.

How had his life gotten so weird, so quickly? Then again, if he was going to trust Sarah, his life had been a bit weird practically from the start. The weirdness had just been pushed aside, awaiting an opportunity to pop back up and bite him in the ass.

She looked... strange. Not quite human. Also smoking hot, which was probably not something he should be thinking considering the relationship she claimed, but _damn_ , and you can't condemn a guy for noticing. Then again, maybe some of the strangeness was the makeup, though why she would take time to apply extravagant black and silver eye makeup when she was running all over the world with a baby and stolen goods, he didn't know. Maybe she wanted to make a good impression? Not that it had; it was more just... weird. Maybe it was in fashion back when she disappeared? He didn't really remember… that would have been… 1998? He hadn't noticed girls much, back then. Certainly he didn't remember makeup.

Whatever. She'd answer his questions, _all_ his questions, tomorrow, or she could find a new place to go. Even if it meant… okay, damn, he couldn't put a baby out on the street in January. That wouldn't be fair to the kid. Well, he'd keep the kid—call the police or something—get her adopted by a good family—and Sarah could go on her merry way, back to her goblin lover. Ex-lover. Partner. Whatever.

He spared a moment to wonder if maybe she was just _a fucking crazy person_ , but no. There was no way. This was way too complicated to be a delusion. She had to be telling the truth. And the money had been real.

He rolled over, and pulled out the shoebox of little items he kept under his bed. He had meant to buy some sort of table to put next to the bed, but he hadn't yet taken the time. Inside the box, along with some childhood mementos, he found the letter she'd written him.

He read it through, and then read it again. The letter wasn't very detailed, but as far as it went, her story matched. The story in the letter didn't quite match the red book, but she'd told him that she'd read the book herself, so that made sense. It would be rather circular if the book she'd read as a girl told _her_ story. Then again, she'd just turned a fucking glass ball into a bassinet… but did that mean she could re-order time?

His only concept of magic came from Harry Potter, which was made up and she was real, but it made sense that just like in Harry Potter, Transfiguration, or whatever-the-fuck she'd done with the glass ball, was easier than time travel. She probably couldn't travel through time.

Probably.

He turned out the light, and lay back, absently flicking on his iPhone to check Facebook, in search of some sort of distraction. He scrolled through status updates, but the most interesting ones concerned nothing more than a detailed description of a New Year's hangover. _Long lost sister showed up on doorstep_ , he thought. That was the kind of thing you usually posted a status about, but he didn't. Not even a vague one. Mom would see, and then there would be questions, and it would all go to shit.

Mom. Shit.

Today was Sunday—well, it was Sunday now that midnight had passed. Dad would be in town for business next week, and they were planning to come down Friday evening, expecting to spend the weekend with him. They'd want to talk about work, and when was he coming home again, and was there a girl in his life, and was he really _happy_ here, in the city? It would make no difference that they'd seen him at Christmas and barely two weeks would have passed. He was still working for an accounting firm and studying for the CPA exam, a job that he didn't particularly care about but at least it made decent money and would make more; he wasn't coming home again until there was a major holiday or they forced him; he hadn't had a girlfriend since Erin left him to go to school in California; and his job was here, his friends were here, his life was here, so no, he didn't want to move back to the suburbs, thank you _so_ very much.

But as hard as it is when your only relationship with your parents consists of either the sort of small talk you'd make with strangers, or intense prying into your personal life, that was nothing compared to the insanity that would ensue if they showed up, without warning, to find him living with a girl who looked his age and had a baby. His mother would have his head. His father would ask why he hadn't done right by her.

If they tried to pass off some version of the truth—that they had met because Sarah was Linda Williams' daughter—that would raise other questions. And Mom… Mom hated Linda Williams. She might not notice, without the connection being spelled out, but if they tried that… Sarah looked very much like Linda, once you got past her weirdness.

He flicked off the phone and rolled over, yawning. Maybe she could be a friend of a friend? Whatever. It was too late—too early—for more of this. Tomorrow. The bullshit would resume tomorrow.

* * *

A baby was crying. Why the fuck was a baby crying? The neighbors didn't have kids. A baby was crying and it was _fucking loud_ , like it was coming from the living room.

Toby rolled over, so that he could see the clock. Six AM. He could hear movement in the other room, along with crying. Right. Baby. Sarah was in there, with the baby.

He jammed the pillow over his head, trying to drown out the noise, but it was like fingernails on a chalkboard; nothing could keep it out. After a few minutes passed with no change, he gave up. So much for sleeping in on Sunday. Hell, so much for getting more than four hours.

"Sssh, oh honey hush, please." Sarah was pacing back and forth in front of the television, rocking the baby against her shoulder. "Hush, precious, you're going to wake Uncle Toby, please, go to sleep."

"Uncle Toby?" he asked, a little annoyed. "Since when am I 'Uncle Toby?'"

"Since you're my brother, and she's mine," Sarah snapped back, and then something in her face softened. "I'm sorry. Maybe I should have asked. And I didn't mean for her to wake you." She looked at the child again, and frowned. "She's clean and fed and not cold and… I don't know what she needs."

"Maybe she needs her mother." Sarah recoiled from him when he said it, and glared, but he wasn't going to feel bad about it. It was probably true.

"Well, she can't have her mother. She has me." She shifted the baby to her other arm, and stopped pacing, settling for rocking back and forth. Thankfully, the wailing had settled down into a quieter, fussy sort of whine; irritating, but at least they could hear each other. One little fist scrubbed at her eyes. Sarah shushed her again.

"She could. Couldn't you give her back?"

"No." For a moment, she seemed disinclined to go on, but she caught his disbelieving look. "I checked in on her mom this morning. She thinks she's dead." She frowned. "It's odd, actually, but there must be a reason."

"What? Odd? No! That's horrible! You have to go to her!" What kind of person was his sister, to keep a mother from her child?

"No. No, I really don't. I really _shouldn't_ , either." The rocking seemed to be working; the child was only whimpering now. "Listen, Toby, I know this is a lot to take in, but you have to trust me, here." She eyed him, and he felt suddenly scruffy, standing there in his pajamas while she looked immaculate. How did she do that, anyway? Was she dressed differently than she had been the night before? He hadn't seen anything in the bags but baby stuff.

Whatever. "Trust you? I'm trying, since best as I can tell you do seem to be who you say you are, but you're really asking a lot, here. You alone would be enough to take. You and a stolen baby…." He covered a yawn. "Since I'm up, I'm going to make coffee, and you're going to give me some answers."

After a few minutes, she followed him into the kitchen, watching as he set the coffee maker dripping. The baby seemed to be asleep, finally, but as he watched, she whined again, and scrubbed her face against Sarah's chest. Sarah stood by the stove, continuing her rocking motion.

"You take sugar? Milk?" he asked, softly.

"Sugar, and cream if you have it," she answered, in the same tone.

"Just milk," he shrugged. "It's full fat, though."

"That'll do."

They stood in silence while the coffee brewed, Sarah still rocking the baby, who wasn't moving. Truly asleep, then. He prayed she stayed that way, at least a few hours. When the coffee was done, he poured to mugs and sat down at the table, getting sugar from the cabinet and milk from the fridge. Sarah took her mug and sipped, thoughtfully, then doctored it carefully and raised it again. She took a long swallow, and closed her eyes, sighing with pleasure.

"You would not believe how long it's been since I've had good coffee," she said, catching his eye as she lowered her mug.

"You can't just… magic it up?" He reminded himself to keep his voice low; he did _not_ want more crying baby this morning.

She sighed. "No. I'm not strong enough for that; everything I make tastes like dishwater and sawdust, and has about the same nutritional value. _He_ can make the most amazing things, but he doesn't like coffee, so it all comes out just tasting like ground dirt and bitterness." She laughed, almost fondly, and took another sip. "And you don't really need caffeine, so much, in the Underground. But you don't really care about _his_ failings as a barista."

"Well, it's funny, but no." He leaned forward, placing both elbows on the table, his mug held between both hands. He'd caught the emphasis on the masculine, the way she said it like a proper noun. _Goblin King. Jareth. Partner._

"So, what do you want to know?" She sat back, mug in one hand; the other still supported the baby, who was now so asleep that her arms and legs dangled, completely limp.

"Everything?" He tried to laugh, but it still sounded like a demand. "I read your letter, yeah, but it was pretty vague, all that 'once upon a time.' So why don't you just start at the beginning."


	2. A New Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be sure to note the date at the top of the chapter. Chapter One was dated January 2, 2011.

_423 Days (January 22, 1999)_

Jareth sprawled in his throne, a battered paperback in his hands. The room was full of goblins; he was accustomed to the cacophony. There were patterns in the noise that after long enough had come to sound like music; those patterns had even inspired the occasional composition. He had worried about that, at first, but after a while he wrote it off as overactive imagination, or maybe just too much brainpower. He had never been able to learn not to think, but he could focus better if part of his mind was occupied with something else. He had been focused on the book, but at a break in the narrative, he allowed his mind to drift the direction it had so often wandered these past years.

 _Sarah_. She was the only thing, the only _person_ , he had ever been able to focus on to the exclusion of others, frequently with conversation and nearly always with her touch. He lay back, drawing a crystal into his free hand, and thought of her, finding her easily. She was with _that dwarf_ , he saw, and frowned. They were playing some game that seemed to involve a great many semiprecious gemstones, and she was laughing, her eyes shining with pleasure.

Once, the sight would have darkened the room, but he had seen her laugh like that, and had been its cause, often enough in the past days to dampen the jealousy that once had nearly ruled him. And though part of him longed to have her near at every moment, balm for hundreds of years of loneliness and eleven years of silence, he knew also that they were better for these brief partings, and that she would be glad to see him, this evening, when he came for her. Today would be exceptionally Long, and so would the night be. And the night held the promise of things _that dwarf_ was not built to imagine.

Sarah had been after him, recently, on the subject of the dwarf. "He could be a valuable ally," she had said, "if you two would get over disliking each other." The irritating thing was that he could not get the thought out of his head. _The dwarf_ was the most complete personality in the Labyrinth, apart from Sarah and Jareth himself. He would never _improve_ , but he was intelligent enough to recognize signs of decay. A useful ally, indeed, especially if Jareth ever had a reason to journey Above for any length of time.

Jareth was not accustomed to being wrong, but Sarah challenged him at every turn. It was frequently exhilarating, but often exhausting, and occasionally frustrating, especially when she was in the right.

Well. If the little scab wanted to make amends, Jareth would hear him out. He turned back to the book.

* * *

Nine hours, twenty-six minutes, and ten seconds later, he was deep into the book's climax when the sudden quiet of the room drew his attention. Then the whispers started: "the girl! The girl!" He waited to hear The One Who Asks Questions punctuate the cries with a heavy, "What girl?" before looking up. The One Who Knows the Answer hissed at him that it was "The girl who cuddles with the king, you fool," and Sarah looked briefly annoyed.

"Sarah." He extended a hand, drawing her attention, and she approached to take it, stepping carefully around the goblins in her way. It was endearing, the way she was so gentle with them, even when she was annoyed with them, and even though she knew that they did not object to being simply pushed around. _She would be wonderful with children._ He pushed away that painful thought, pulling her down to sit on the edge of the throne, and she leaned in for a kiss. She smelled like the outdoors, sunlight and old grass and dust, and she tasted of salt, of the honest sweat of exercise. For a moment everything else faded away, and there was only her; he thought he could spend eternity sampling her variety.

He pulled himself together as she snuggled into his shoulder, bringing the book around behind her head to continue reading. She sighed, and closed her eyes.

"This author builds an intriguing world," he said, his thoughts returning to the path they had been on before her entrance, "but he overburdens his story with obscure vocabulary." He frowned at the page. "I speak excellent English, but even I require context to discern what is intended by the description of these beings as 'ornately and garishly caparisoned like a royal cadre.' Additionally, the description would be more effective if it were more exact. He gains nothing by his verbosity."

"'Gains nothing by his verbosity?'" she parroted back. "I think he's rubbing off on you. What are you reading?" Sarah twisted around to look; he took the opportunity to plant a kiss behind her ear, enjoying the way she jumped and then leaned into him. "Ah. I have mixed feelings about that series… the world-building is great and the plot interesting, but the main character took it right off my re-read list. The rape…."

"He is not a good man," Jareth concurred, "but neither has the world been kind to him." The main character was a normal man, asked to take on a burden and a duty far beyond that which should have been demanded of him. Although Jareth knew that he himself had chosen to stay, had chosen this duty, he could relate. There had been times when he had resented his lot; many times. And even that act which caused her to despise the protagonist… Jareth would never tell Sarah how hard it had been to rein himself in, those tortuous days before she finally accepted him. _All the sweeter, when she is willing_ , he had told himself, and _do not give up eternity for the present_ ; even then, waking in her bed, with her in his arms, had moved him like the sweetest torture, love and desire too long denied.

"Mm." Sarah laid her head against his shoulder again, and again he stopped to indulge in the softness of her body, against his; the warmth of her breath at his neck. _My Sarah_. His empty hand came up to stroke her back, and she snuggled closer, her nose pressing into the skin of his throat.

They stayed there, in silence, as he finished the book, another sixteen minutes and four seconds. He might have thought that Sarah slept, but for the fingers that occasionally stroked his chest, or played with the laces of his shirt, a minor distraction from the text. Still, he was content, if she was. She sat up when he shifted to put the book down.

"Well?" she asked.

"It is as I said before," he answered. The book bore strong marks of Tolkien's influence, as well as strong imagination on the author's part, and perhaps other fairly recent influences as well.

"But is there another link? Does it help?" She asked this after every story that he finished, even though most of the time, the answer was no.

"Have you seen anything in the Labyrinth which is reflected in this story?"

"I haven't, no, but you know it better than I do. And you know what you've recorded in your ledgers, over the years." It was true. He had piles of the things—more than he wanted to think about. The fact that he could not recall a specific, recent link did not mean the story was not or could not be connected to the Underground; his memory was good, but not infallible.

She was frowning at him. He leaned forward, and kissed her. She opened to him with a little sigh, sweet surrender, and all his worries and thoughts and even the ever-present, itchy timesense backed into the far corner of his mind as he let himself drown in her. _My weakness_. He lost himself in the feel of her soft lips, the caress of her tongue, a kiss that made demands and then answered them, but that also fanned the embers of that flame that had burned in him ever since her journey through his Labyrinth, ever since she had danced in his arms and looked at him with both innocence and desire. _Mine_. Before that dance, he had loved her; then and thereafter he also _wanted._

Her hands came up to frame his face, her fingers stroking gently across his cheekbones and up into his hair, caressing his ears in passing, and he pressed her closer, hungry now. The book was forgotten; it fell from his hand, and he registered but ignored the squawk of protest from the goblin it bonked on the head as it fell behind the throne.

"Beloved," he breathed, against her lips. "Come." At the brief distraction, he noticed that the kiss had lasted eighty-seven seconds.

"Yes," she answered, and he transported them in the moment, catching her against his chest as she stumbled at the change in position. He loved this strength, this little power over her, that he could guide her, that he could keep her well and safe as they moved through space. Someday she might have that power as well; he wanted it and feared it in equal part. _Mine. Mine._

He had brought her right to her bedroom; she never closed the doors, anymore. His hands stroked down her sides to cup her bottom, and she arched against him as he lowered his mouth to taste the skin of her throat, salt and heat and sweet softness. Her fingers curved against his back—she'd got under the hem of his shirt—and he groaned with pleasure as she touched and then dug into a tense muscle, soothing away a knot. She laughed, softly, and kissed his ear, supporting him with one arm around his waist as the other hand worked over him, seeking more sore spots. He helped her, leaning his arms on her bedpost for balance and support.

"Just lay down," she whispered, sliding her hands up to pull the shirt over his head. He was happy to be her slave, in this; he let his legs give out and dropped onto the bed on his stomach, as gracefully as he could manage. "It's the way you sprawl on that throne," she continued, her hands working slowly down his spine. "Have you ever thought to replace it with something more comfortable? Something with, say, padding?"

Had she asked him that before? Probably not. He tracked her fingers and counted seconds and noticed the soft cotton of her skirt against his bare skin. She wore skirts more often, the longer she stayed. He never asked, but she knew he preferred it. Two minutes and five seconds into her massage, she moved down and grabbed his buttocks, one in each hand, and he dismissed his pants and his boots with a lazy wave. She laughed, and pressed a kiss to the base of his spine, digging her fingers into the muscle. He did wear clothes with fastenings, now, sometimes, because she liked taking them off, but he hadn't thought to see her so early, today.

She leaned over his back, kissing the base of his neck, and he rolled, a little, to capture her with one arm, pushing her onto her back and leaning over her. One heel traced up his calf. She had kicked off her shoes. He kissed her again, rougher, more urgently.

A sense memory tingled, past the feeling of her lips. He had noted earlier that she smelled of dust and grass and sun and outdoors; he remembered now that this was how she had smelled the first time they made love. She had been in the Labyrinth that day, as well. She had been looking for _him_. It was the first time he had been the pursued, rather than pursuer. _She chose me_. It still astonished him.

_They stand in the hall, where he had transported them, and she is pressed against him, standing far closer than the magic required. She had said she had something to tell him, but she seems frozen, or perhaps in no rush to move forward. Will she deny him again? No. She will tell him. After all the pain and hiding, the time for secrets is through. Forty-eight seconds, they have been standing here, and yet she does not move, she does not speak. But he can feel her growing tension, hear her pounding heart. Is she afraid?_

_No. Not fear. He is watching her eyes now, darkening, and she is staring at his mouth, not blinking. She is breathing faster, and her fingers tighten against his spine, and suddenly he finds himself not just willing for but actually fighting for control, fighting to stand still, to wait for her, to do anything other than shove her against the wall and fuck her until she likes it. Sixty-seven seconds, now._

_He knows he is losing the battle, knows it shows in his face, but she shows no fear. It is more than his imagination; she wants this too. She wants him, too._ Say your right words, beloved. Before I lose my mind. _But knowing she wants him frays him just a little more, and like a wave crashing on the seashore he is moving to kiss her, even if she hates him for it, even if it destroys their tenuous happiness. But as his lips seek hers she moves, too, and then she is kissing him, fierce and relentless as the undertow, and nothing has been ruined, after all._

In his arms, Sarah gasped, her hands clenching at his shoulders as he stroked a thumb across her bare nipple. _The only one who makes me lose time; even when I remember her I forget…._ But it was catching up, now, seventy-three seconds he'd been remembering as he undressed her, as he drowned in her kisses, past and present mingled. He dropped his mouth to her breast, a moment, relishing the taste of warm sweet skin, the way the sensitive nipple puckered and changed at his attentions, the way Sarah rewarded him with a moan, her hand coming up to hold the back of his head.

"So beautiful, my love," he whispered as he dropped lower, removing her remaining clothing, breathing in the scent of her desire. He could taste her already, scent and memory, as he had tasted her that first day and so many days since.

 _He has never been this vulnerable, with another; never so lost, never so disarmed. He wants to tell her, wants her to know that more than loneliness moves him, that he has wanted her so long, that she is the most wondrous creature he knows, that he is hers forever. In some strange way his mind is clearing, now that she is kissing him back, now that she is holding him as tightly and as desperately as he holds her. He tries to say it, tries to tell her that they can stop, a little, if she wishes, but she will not permit it. Never did he imagine that she could be his match for passion. He cannot stop; she demands that he continue._ Your slave, beloved. As ever. _"Don't stop," she breathes, and he is lost._

"Don't stop!" she begged, her voice echoing his thoughts. His tongue had been working over her, two minutes and forty-six seconds, her arousal heavy and sweet in his mouth, on his chin, her hips thrusting, though he held her down. He pressed harder, holding her still, and resumed his attentions, drawing her to the edge of bliss, that edge he could hear in her voice, feel in her trembling thighs, see as her sex swelled with blood, taste again on his tongue. One more touch, with a bit of heat, and she was gone, over the edge, her scream music to his ears as her leg clenched behind his head, holding him in place. He could feel her muscles tense, and twitch, even as her leg released him and he rose to claim a kiss. She reached between them, as he moved, her hand closing around him, stroking gently. There, too, was a memory, that first caress that had nearly undone him, but he pushed it aside, this time; she deserved his full attention, when he made love to her. He would not be distracted by anyone, even their past.

He allowed her guide him close before he took over, hooking her leg up over his hip to ease his access and deepen the angle. He closed his eyes as he brought their bodies together, as she thrust up to help him; this was always wonderful, always new. _Mine. Together. Always._

* * *

She smelled like sun, and sweat, and sex, now, as they lay, entangled in each other, on the rumpled covers of her bed.

"Mmm," she hummed, nuzzling into his neck, "I'm glad I came back early."

"Why did you? I expected to retrieve you later."

She shrugged, and snuggled closer. "You shouldn't have to come get me every day; it's not fair. And I want to learn more ways through the Labyrinth, which I don't if you're always popping me around. And…" she tucked her head into his neck, her arms and legs tightening around him, "I missed you."

 _I missed you_. He kissed her hair; his fingers tightened where they rested on her arm, on her hip. _I missed you_.

"So," she said, propping herself up on one elbow. He rolled onto his back, as she looked down at him. "You never did tell me if there were any connections in that book." Ah, but neither had he said there was none. Had she caught it? "Even if there aren't Labyrinth connections, what about your Dreams, or other Underground links?" Still, he must disappoint her again.

"Nothing other than the obvious, and that tenuous at best."

"The obvious?" He waited. She would make the connection. "Oh, the ring."

"The ring." He nodded. "A true retelling of the _Völsungasaga_ would serve much better. A mere ring of power is not enough to truly bring a story to my attention." The last such had been some one hundred and forty years ago; he had felt the connection, and done his best to encourage it, but he had not been able to get Above, to hear the work itself. It was harder, when the connected kingdom was gone.

"Are you going upstairs tonight?" she asked, pulling him away from faint memories of his family's home, where he had spent so little time.

"I am. The author lives, unlike your Tolkien; perhaps I can reach him." It was still afternoon in America, where the man resided. She began to sit up, but he stopped her, pulling her down again. "We have a few hours yet, beloved."

 _Save your plans for longer days; they will keep_ , he had told her, the night she had returned to him. If only they could save them forever; if only they could simply _be_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Völsungasaga is one of the two major epic poems and myths which are the source of the material for Richard Wagner's Ring Cycle operas; the other is the Nibelungenlied. They both contain several characters out of Norse myth.


	3. Goodwill

_January 2, 2011, 8:53 AM_

"So let me get this straight." Three cups of coffee later, Toby was only just starting to think that he might have a grip on the weirdness of his life. "Your mom is only famous because the— _He_ —granted her the life of her dreams in exchange for you?" Sarah nodded. "Which means I only exist because your mother is a selfish bitch who wished you away and then didn't even fight hard enough to get you back."

Sarah winced at this. "I guess." She sighed. "But Toby, I hope you don't think I…" she trailed off.

"I don't know," he told her, honestly. "I mean, I'm not really thrilled that you wanted me gone, but I understand a little better. Hell, part of me wanted to get rid of that little girl this morning, just because she was loud. And you didn't know it would happen, and you fought to get me back. And you aren't my _mother_."

"My mother didn't know it would happen, either," she said softly. "I don't think anyone really does, until _he_ shows up." There was that fond smile, again. "He knows how to make an entrance, that's for sure. Did I tell you he can turn into an owl?" She paused, then, looking more serious; when she spoke again, she changed the subject. "What do you remember? About your childhood?"

He thought back. "A lot of babysitters," he said, finally. "None of them stand out. Mom and Dad were gone, a lot. She likes to go with him when he travels."

Sarah nodded. "That's what I remember, too. Only it wasn't a lot of babysitters, not at first, anyway. It was me. Every time, almost, until I moved out when you were four, to go to college, and then me again when I was home for breaks. And even when they were home, Karen was always calling me to get this or that for you, because she was cooking something ridiculously complicated or she had just done her hair or she didn't want you to spit up on her new blouse." She paused. "Er… sorry. I probably shouldn't talk about your mom that way."

Toby shrugged. He was used to his mother's ways, and while she seemed to enjoy having him around to poke at and brag about, she didn't seem to like babies much, or even small children. He remembered very well how she'd restricted his toys to his bedroom, because God forbid the first floor of the house look like it was lived in instead of a page out of a fucking catalogue.

"That helps, actually," he said. "I think I do understand. Not that it's thrilling, but I get it. Mom probably wasn't the easiest person to live with, especially when you'd been an only child so long."

Sarah nodded again. "Yes. And like you said, I was your sister, and a hormonal teenager, not your mother." She paused a moment, looking thoughtful. "That was really the first lesson the Labyrinth taught me: that what I was going through wasn't your fault. You weren't even verbal yet." In her arms, the child stirred; tiny fists clenched and little toes curled as knees and elbows bent. Waking, she fussed again, and banged her head into Sarah's sternum. He sighed. At least she wasn't screaming.

"I should feed her," Sarah said, standing up. Last night, she had dumped the duffel out, heedlessly, and he'd gone to bed with the kitchen a mess, but today she had stacked the formula containers on the counter, along with another bottle and various supplies he only vaguely recognized as baby-related. Had she slept, at all? She didn't look tired. "And then—I know this is a lot to ask, but—I need—I mean, I've been stealing—" She broke off, and sighed. "I need diapers and wipes and things, and I'd rather they were paid for. Plus, I don't have anything for myself… I dressed myself magically, today, but I'd rather save my strength."

"Save your strength? In case, what, you need to run?"

For a moment she looked shocked, and then she made a face he couldn't quite interpret. "Well, maybe. But more so that I can make the bigger things that she'll need, and maybe do some things for you, too. I mean, if you'll… if you'll let us stay." She pressed her lips together, looking suddenly very unsure.

If he'd let them stay.

"I'll take you shopping," he said, finally. "We can go to Target, first, for the stuff you don't want to buy used, and then there's a Goodwill not too far away that should be open in the afternoon. As to the rest… there's still more that we need to talk about, but I'm not going to kick you out tonight."

"Thank you, Toby," she said, sincerely. "I really appreciate the way you're taking all this."

"Well, I won't deny that it's weird, but at least it's interesting." As she laughed, he stood, placing their mugs in the sink, and crossed to his bedroom. "I'm gonna shower, while you feed her, and then we'll go."

When he emerged, he found her standing at his bookshelf, trailing a hand across one row of books. She looked ready to go; the baby was secured in the wrap, her head resting on Sarah's chest.

"What's _Harry Potter_?" she asked, and he found himself blinking stupidly. She didn't know about _Harry Potter_?

"I thought you were into fantasy and things? You've never heard of him?"

She pulled the first book, opening it to the title page. "September 1998. I left in July." She looked at him. "On your birthday." She flipped back to the book jacket, and scanned the summary, frowning slightly. "I'm surprised your mom let you read this. She was always after me about my 'fairy stories.'"

"I think she liked it because I actually wanted to read it," he answered. "Not that I hated reading, really, but when a new one came out that was _all_ I wanted to do. Makes something to brag about, telling other moms that you have to threaten your kid to get him to put the book down and go to bed. Though actually, with those books, a lot of moms got to make that boast."

"I see," she said. The baby shifted, again, and she put the book down reluctantly. "We should go while she's in a good mood."

"Sarah," he said, remembering something that had only occurred to him when he'd gone to change, "what's her name?"

She looked down at the little girl resting on her chest. "I… I don' t know, actually. What name her mother gave her. I guess I'll have to think of one." She sighed. "Are you ready?"

"Yeah, but…." Looking at her again, he realized that somewhere in the past few hours her strange makeup had started to seem normal, like it fit her. Even so, it would draw a lot of attention. "Look, I don't really remember what fashion was like, before, but can you maybe wash off some of that paint? I mean, unless you want everyone to stare at you. You're a bit old for the goth look."

"Paint?" She looked bewildered.

"Or whatever… eyeliner? On your face."

"Oh," she said, and put a hand to her cheek, rubbing her fingers over her skin as though the sensation was new to her. "I… it isn't makeup." He stepped closer, examining her, and found that what she said was true: the skin of her eyelids was actually darker, more regular than a birthmark, more like a tattoo, and the mark swept up to meet her eyebrows, which he noticed now were slanted almost completely up, rather than arching like a normal human brow. Between the tattoo-like mark and the hair of her brow, the skin glittered, as though embedded with tiny flakes of diamond.

"Anyway," she pulled away from him, "I think I can fix it. Give me a minute." She went down the hall to the bathroom, and he waited, thinking.

He wanted her to stay.

It didn't make any sense—it would complicate his life extraordinarily—where would she even sleep? And she had the baby! But in some strange way, in less than twelve hours, the weirdness had started to feel _right_ , like he'd found something he hadn't even known was missing.

They would need a bigger place. A two bedroom, maybe. The baby could sleep in with her. Now he was thankful that he'd only taken a six-month lease the last time he renewed on this place. He'd done it in the hope that he'd pass his exam, get promoted, and be able to afford something better. Of course, maybe he couldn't afford better, if he was going to be supporting them, too.

Was he really considering saddling himself with a family? A family that wasn't even exactly his? What would his responsibilities be? And hers? What would she expect of him? Would he be watching the kid? What would other women think?

Fuck. Other women. If he did this, that's exactly what he _wouldn't_ be doing, most likely. Fucking other women—any women. And while right now his intriguing long-lost sister was fascinating and amazing and more interesting than a hazy unknown college girl, even with the baby baggage, he knew he wouldn't be feeling quite so chaste the next time he met the guys at the bar down by the university or got invited to a party. And he didn't always go out just looking to get laid—he liked to at least enjoy the girl's company, not just her body—but he knew he'd be fooling himself if he thought he wanted to give up the option of bringing her home. And what about Sarah? Would she mind?

Or if he started seeing someone seriously, again… how would she take the thought of her man living with a beautiful woman with no husband or partner in sight? And then there was the baby; most would assume the girl was Sarah's, and probably also think she'd ended up pregnant through carelessness, and was therefore loose, and not to be trusted.

The same assumption his parents would make.

He still wanted her to stay.

He couldn't say why. It just felt… _right_. In spite of the very real obstacles, he wanted it to work out.

He had two weeks until he had to give his landlord notice, if he was moving out; he could let her stay two weeks. It meant handling his parents, but that couldn't be helped; they'd figure out something. And in two weeks, he could have a decision.

Unless, of course, the Goblin King caught her, first.

* * *

"Better?" He was startled out of his reverie by Sarah's return, and for a moment he simply _stared_.

In some ways, yes, it was better. In others, it was worse.

She looked normal, now; human. That was good. Her strange markings were gone and her eyebrows curved normally. But those weren't the only changes. Before, she had looked almost too perfect, like a goddess, someone you put on a pedestal and admired, but couldn't touch. Now, her once-perfect pale skin, though still clear, had a hint of human ruddiness, and her eyes, once so green they nearly glowed, now simply— _simply!—_ sparkled with life. Nor he had not noticed how perfectly symmetrical her features had been, until he saw her now, the corners of her eyes turning slightly differently, and her nostrils describing minutely asymmetrical ovals.

Though mankind prized symmetry as a standard of beauty, none ever attained it in perfection. Before, she had been too perfect, something in her appearance suggesting that she was not quite of this world. Now, she looked like the woman every man would want to go home with: perfect enough to be drop-dead gorgeous, but just imperfect enough to be real.

If he let her stay, his sex life would _definitely_ suffer. Then again, if he did want to get serious again, it would be a perfect test to see if the girl was The One: if she had enough confidence in herself and faith in him to trust him with and about Sarah, in spite of appearances.

Abruptly, he realized he'd been staring, and Sarah was starting to give him a _look_ , some odd mix of curiosity and impatience.

"Yeah," he said, thankful his voice didn't sound as hoarse as he'd feared it would. "That's… better." He shook himself, and pulled his phone out, flicking to Maps. "Are you okay to walk there? The Target is about a mile away. If you're hungry, there's a great place on the way."

"I'm good to walk anywhere," she said, sounding somewhat distracted. "I walked all the time, in the Labyrinth. What is that?" She had come up behind him and was standing on her toes, trying to see the screen in his hand.

"It's an iPhone," he answered, frowning at her. "A smartphone. You know. Cell phone."

"I _don't_ know, remember?" she said, and he did his best to mentally scroll back. It had been so long, he felt like he'd had a cell phone forever, but surely….

"They had cell phones in 1998. I remember Dad had one."

"Yeah," she answered, "but they were…" she gestured, indicating a size about the same height as his iPhone 4, slightly narrower in width, and far, far thicker. He wouldn't want to keep that in his pocket; far too uncomfortable. "And they had actual buttons, and no directions," she concluded.

"This has more than just directions," he told her. "It plays music, and has games, and I can get email and the internet. It works with a touch screen." He poked the screen, showing her how it responded to his fingers. She watched, mesmerized. "Actually, we should get you one, while we're out," he said. "Not a fancy one like this—they're expensive—but you should have a way to reach me when I'm working." He walked to the door and pulled on his coat; she retrieved her own, buttoning it securely around the little girl, who had a pacifier in her mouth and seemed to be taking it all in quietly, thank God. The coat was ridiculously overlarge on her, he saw now, but he could also see why she'd chosen it: far easier than finding winter clothes for the baby. Well, hopefully Goodwill would have something.

"You don't have a phone in the house?" she asked, as they exited and he locked up.

"Nah," he said. "Most people my age don't, actually. Almost everyone has cell phones these days, and if you have one with GPS, like mine, emergency responders can even usually find you if you need to call 911. So a home phone is just one more bill to pay."

Slowly, she nodded. "It's very strange," she said, as they started walking. "I thought the weirdest part about coming back would be seeing you, but that's been pretty normal, as far as all this goes. I never considered how technology would have changed, or what new books might have been published, even though I really, really should have." She sighed. "I mean, we aren't _completely_ cut off, from the important things—I know about the World Trade Center, for example—but most things don't make that big of an impact. _He_ can sense more than I can, and he usually told me, but even then, not many things can really get his attention anymore."

"You wanna tell me about that? About… how it works, between here and… what did you call it?"

"The Underground," she said. "There used to be a lot of stories up here that… linked to people down there. How did he put it? 'Every story of a powerful immortal has its roots in my people,' or something like that."

"What, so like… vampires? Dracula?"

She gave him a strange look. "Maybe," she said. "Dracula, anyway; not Anne Rice. I never thought of that, and he never said. But if that's true, it's the least of their stories. I meant… I meant more like gods. You know, Zeus. Thor." She laughed. "Much more than _Dracula_. And on our side—Above—it's belief in their sort and their kingdoms that keeps the connection open. On their side—Below—there needs to be at least one of _them_ , and there's only one, anymore. _Him_. Well. And me. Sort of. Mostly." She looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "Why was the first thing you thought of vampires?"

"Eh…" he trailed off, embarrassed. "Pop culture thing. Vampires are sort of… cool… now." He shook his head. "Anyway. So if he leaves… everything goes poof?"

"Well, not right away. I don't actually know how long he can stay away. He did for about a week, once, I know." She shrugged. "Transference—that's what he calls travel between realms—is really hard, too. He said it was easier, once, when more believed, when more Kingdoms remained. The Labyrinth is all there is, now."

They walked in silence, for a time; she looked sad, and he didn't want to disturb her. In another block, they came to the bakery he'd mentioned, and he motioned her inside.

"I don't know about you, but I could use a little breakfast."

* * *

She asked for a bagel with cream cheese, and went to get them a table. He ordered her bagel and a breakfast sandwich and another coffee for each of them—he'd drink hers if she didn't want it—and went to wait for them to call his name. When he got to the table with their food, he found Sarah looking around curiously.

"This place seems pretty established," she said. "Are they common, now? I mean, I remember Starbucks, but…."

"What? Oh, yeah. Health food is all the thing now. Calories on everything, natural ingredients, all that shit. I just like it 'cause the bread is good. Don't mind the coffee, either."

"More coffee?" She laughed. "You're going to jitter away."

"I got you some, too." He offered the cup, and she grinned. "And they have cream."

When she returned from doctoring her beverage, she looked more annoyed than anything. "I need some kind of baby carrier that isn't strapped to me," she said, sitting down again. The baby squirmed at the change in position, and made a noise of protest; Sarah patted her back soothingly. "There, there, love, it's not your fault." She reached for the bagel and the plastic knife. "Seriously, though, this was easiest when I had to transport her, but she's in the way all the time, it seems. I like a good snuggle but this is ridiculous."

"Is that something you can... make?" He lowered his voice on the last word, not wanting anyone to overhear even the slightest reference to her magic.

"Probably. But if we can find something…." She was obviously uncomfortable asking him to spend money.

"Alright," he said. "Listen, your money did pretty okay, and I have a good job. I can afford to get you a few things. But are you sure you'll need them?"

"Will I need them?" She blinked, confused. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Well, I mean…." Suddenly, he wasn't sure how to say it. "Will… what are the chances we'll see _Him_ anytime soon?" Fucking masculine pronoun. He didn't like talking about the other man—the _Goblin King_ —as if he were God, even if he maybe once had been. He resolved to stick to "your partner" from here on out. Or maybe "that rat."

She took a deep breath, and let it out again, biting her lip. He couldn't quite name the expression on her face. Was it regret? Sadness? Fear? Hope? She looked into her coffee, swirling it gently. It was several moments before she spoke.

"I think I did a pretty good job hiding where I went, but he probably can feel my little girl, here, which will bring him, someday. But I've been Above for just over a week, now, and he hasn't come. That means either he isn't coming—" her voice broke, and she winced, like the thought brought physical pain, "or he doesn't know where I am yet. And what I did… I think we might have up to a year. Maybe two. Probably not more. And if—when—he does come… well, then we'll see." She sat back, her food forgotten. She looked defeated by the thought.

As far as Toby was concerned, that was their cue to get moving.

"C'mon," he said, stretching out his hand in an extravagantly courteous gesture. "Let us spend some money. I hear that is a common cure for a fair maiden's ills." For a moment, she stared at his hand, and he thought that maybe she blinked back tears. But then she shook herself, and smiled, and accepted his hand as assistance to rise.

"Thank you, Toby," she said, giving his hand a squeeze as she released it. "I'm so glad of one thing, no matter what happens next. I'm glad I got to meet you all grown up." She shrugged the coat on, buttoning it up as she moved to the door.

He took their plates to the trash can, thinking of her words. He felt… proud… and happy… and maybe something else that he couldn't quite identify, let alone try to name.

He wanted her to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_ was published in June of 1997 in the UK, but the US publication was not until September 1998, so Sarah wasn't aware of it when she left.
> 
> How many people remember the cell phones of 1998? Raise your hand if you once owned a phone like the Nokia 5120, which was released that year.


	4. Jealous Kind

_1238 Days (April 4, 2000)_

"Toby!" Sarah bolted awake, jerking out of his arms and sitting up forcefully. Jareth, startled into wakefulness by her sudden motion, blinked at her owlishly in the dim moonlight. It had been a Long day, but he had been upstairs, Dreaming, very late; he had slept only an hour (and two minutes and twenty-one seconds), and only two remained of darkness. Excessive, perhaps, but he must take inspiration where it struck. But Sarah, now, was panting, beside him, with shock or fear, he could not say. He waved a hand, and the candles next to the bed blazed into life.

"What is it, dear one?" he asked, yawning. He sat up, and wrapped his arms around her waist, meaning to pull her down again, but she twisted away, turning to look at him. For a moment, it almost seemed that she looked past him, towards some place he could not see.

Jealousy flared. She had called another name while in _his_ arms, nevermind that they had been asleep, nevermind that it was her brother, and no mortal lover, who had this power to reach her. _Mine_. She had chosen him over her brother, in the end. He willed himself to calm; she needed him, now.

But though he tried to hide it, she seemed to sense his need for reassurance. She slid close, her hand on his thigh, and kissed him, briefly, then pulled back to meet his eyes. Conversation, then. He pressed his lips together against impatience, and waited.

"It was a dream, I think," she said finally, now unsure. "I don't know why I reacted so strongly."

He put his hand to her cheek, stroked her soothingly. "What did you dream, beloved?"

"Toby…" she trailed off. "I think—I think he wanted me. Wants me. Wished for me."

Could it be? He had not thought she would come into this power so soon, the power to hear those Above who wished to reach you, whose cries _you_ wished to know. But if there was one she was promised to hear, as once he had promised to hear her, it would be her brother. He stomped on jealousy again. If she was feeling Toby, that was a good sign; she was more like his people with every day that passed. Soon, now, the physical signs would start.

"If you can truly feel him, love, do not let it go. Focus." She closed her eyes. "What do you sense?"

"He misses me, I think," she said. "Or… he wants me… or someone like me." She pressed her hands to her head, then tilted it to one side, as though listening. "He's thinking, 'I wish I had someone to talk to about this.' About what?" Another pause, and then she started giggling. "Oh, poor Toby."

Her laughter, at least, was beautiful. He shook his head, fighting jealousy, fighting exhaustion. "And what plagues him?"

She laughed again. "I think… I think it's a girl. It's… a girl he doesn't like… but she likes him… he doesn't know how to tell her." She shook her head. "How to… be nice."

"Why would he wish to be kind to someone he dislikes?" Jareth himself had never held with such false pretense.

"Oh; not like that," she answered. "I mean... romantically. She's probably a perfectly nice girl, and he probably doesn't dislike her specifically, but either he is interested in someone else, or she's not pretty enough, or she's boring... it could be any number of things."

He was too tired to be interested, presently, in the child's courtship, or attempts at avoiding it. He could remember, long ago, women throwing themselves at him, when he had lived in Kiev. _Do not permit any woman to touch your heart_ , his mother had told him. He had not; one was much the same as another to him: ephemeral, transient, their lives small and insignificant, their youth over in a blink. Still, they had provided him an education: he had taken many to his bed, learning from them the ways of pleasing a woman, that attentiveness that let a focused, intelligent man know just how to touch her, as though reading her mind. He had taken pleasure in them, as well, blessing the dual nature of his kind that required full maturity in magic to bring their men fertility. Then he had had no thought to children; now, he was only glad that he had not left behind halfbloods. They tended to struggle to place themselves in a world not quite made for them, longing always for a world they might never be able to reach; he had left no children to that cold fate.

His own inclination was, thus, if unattached, to learn from the girl and then discard her, but Sarah generally subscribed to human mores; that advice was unlikely to be welcome. But he could not simply ignore Sarah; that would hurt her. Instead, he asked, "What would you tell him, if he asked you?"

"Well, that depends," she answered. She leaned in to him, resting her head on his shoulder, one arm sliding around his waist, and he embraced her in return. _Mine, and every touch a gift_. His eyes closed, briefly, one second of sleep, then blinked open again as he forced himself to focus on what she was saying. "I'd ask him about the girl, about why he wasn't interested. If it was a good reason, I'd tell him to either be honest, or avoid her, depending how persistent she was. If it wasn't a good reason, I'd tell him to give her a chance. After all," she turned her head and kissed his neck, "I can't say I'm sorry where my second chance landed me." He kissed her temple, and she pressed a hand against his shoulder; taking the hint, he pulled her down again. She rested her head on his chest, her hand coming up to describe little swirls and patterns on his skin. He lowered the lights with a wave, and closed his eyes; he had almost fallen asleep when she spoke again.

"Does it ever stop?"

"Does what stop?"

"I can still hear him."

"He is still thinking of the girl?"

"Yeah."

"You may be able to reach him, as I reached you."

"I could?" She raised herself off his chest to look down at him, to meet his eyes, and he hated the hope shining there, and hated himself for hating it. _She chose me_.

"It is possible. Eventually, it is very probable. I do not know if you can, now, however." He pulled her back down, so that she would not see his face; he was too tired to maintain an indifferent façade.

She cuddled down without protest; his hands tightened, reflexively. "What do I do?"

"Do you remember the first time you were aware of me, after you left?"

"I remember every time," she answered, and he could feel her smile. "But the first time—you only spoke. Words I'd heard from you before."

"Such a pity," he drawled.

She laughed, and said, "I love you," and his heart jumped.

"My Sarah." She snuggled closer. She so rarely said it aloud; then again, neither did he. For twenty-one seconds they were simply silent, together. He curled his fingers into her hair, cradling her head, his eyes closed. He was so tired, and she so warm.

"So what do I do?"

Of course. The _brother_. "Remember something you said to him, once. Imagine whispering that in his ear."

"I told him I'd always be there for him," she said quietly, "the summer after…. The summer I was… back." The time she had spent Above, while he missed her. And she had said that? Had she known, even then? Or had she, then, been sure she would not return? Had it been merely a temporal promise?

Before he could think further on that time between—they still had not discussed it in detail, the pain too fresh—she gasped, then cried out in pain. Her fingers clenched into his skin and he held her tight, stroking, soothing.

"I think I scared him," she said, her eyes clenched tight. "Why did it hurt?"

"My apologies, love; the connection can be fragile when new."

"I lost him," she whispered, and then she was crying into his neck, shaking with sobs.

Automatically he held her, stroked her; he whispered to her, soothing words that he hardly registered. Had she cried like this, for him? He had felt her, but never listened, never answered. He would not have been strong enough to stay away.

And now she clung to him, and cried on him, and he was so, _so_ tired, and she loved her brother, and he had failed to warn her about the pain, and he did love her, so, so much, she was _his_ , she came _back_ , she chose _him_. She was _here_ , in his arms, here to _stay_ , _always, his_.

"Ssh, beloved," he whispered. "You will hear him again." She nodded, and clung tighter.

He could never tell her that he hoped she never would, that he had no desire to share her, that he anticipated her grief, when someday, the child passed, as all Men would. He could never tell her that he still feared she would hate him, when the day came.

 _So, so tired._ But Sarah's sobs had quieted, and her breathing slowed, and her body relaxed, before he fell asleep.

* * *

He woke late; the sun was fully above the horizon. He was not truly rested—he had slept only four hours, two minutes, and forty-two seconds, and the night had been more than twelve—but he felt much better than he had when he had woken in the night. And, to his surprise, Sarah was still abed, nestled in his arms, her back to his chest.

He closed his eyes again and tugged her closer, curling his fingers under her side as he buried his nose in her hair; she smelled of clean mornings and fresh dew and citrus and vanilla, as much his own imagination as the soap she preferred. And though last night she had woken to cry another's name, the truth of the morning was that she was here, in his arms, the scent and softness of her drawing out contentment and lazy, late morning arousal to layer over that possessive instinct. Gently, the hand that had curled around her waist loosened to being caressing in long, slow sweeps, across her belly and down the tops of her thighs.

"So you are awake, then," she said, a hint of laughter in her voice. "I rather thought so." He heard a rustle, and she shifted in his arms as she reached to place something—a book, most likely—safely out of reach. The movement thrust her bottom firmly into the cradle of his hips, and he made no effort to restrain the satisfied noise that rose in his throat, his hand coming to rest at her hip. She turned over, then came close, tangling their legs and moving in for a gentle kiss.

"It has been day for hours now," he said when they parted. "Why did you remain?"

She shrugged, a little self-consciously. "I was busy. And I can read here as well as anywhere else." He looked to what she had been reading; not fiction or history, but rather a language primer; she had decided, recently, that she should learn as many as she could. He could understand: it was necessary to involve the mind, in this place. He had done the same, once upon a time.

"I cannot say that I mind." He dipped his head, gathering her close to taste the soft skin where her neck met her shoulder.

She leaned her cheek against his head, and he could sense the smile in the kiss she planted in his hair. But then she sighed, and he knew she had stayed for something more complex than the simple pleasure of resting in his arms while he slept.

"I miss him," she said quietly.

 _The boy. No. Mine_. He could not help meeting her eyes; it took every effort to keep his face expressionless. The hand he had curled behind her back dropped, his fingers clawing into the mattress.

"Please don't look at me like that." She caught his lips with hers, and for a brief moment that distraction filled his mind, but all too soon, she was pulling away. "I don't regret being here. I can't." She brought her hand to his cheek, and he closed his eyes briefly, turning into her palm. She did not always see through him, so, but he had been alone too long, and he had never had someone in his life quite like her. "When you sent me back, I thought I would die, I missed you so much. It took everything in me to really consider what you'd said, to not go running right back to you. It's… I don't miss him like that. I haven't thought of him in a very long time. But I'll always care about him, you know?"

 _I thought I would die_ _, I missed you so much_. That he understood. He had felt much the same.

But what of the boy? He was aware, still, of the family that had gone before him. The faces, the voices, that danced at the edge of memory, the people he had long ceased to actively remember because it hurt too much to miss them. Each loss alone was slight, but together the wound was deep, and scarred. Most he had never known well and many he had never liked, but it was better even to hate someone than to feel nothing, or to have no one even to hate.

Sarah was waiting for him.

"I am glad you can hear him, beloved." And he was, though more for her transformation than for that connection. "I only fear that in time you will miss him too much." And _that_ he had seen, seen his own kind pine away for want of mortals Above, seen them make foolish decisions under the weight of such emotion. Seen them leave their friends and doom their worlds because those desires could not be tamed.

Come so close, himself, to following them. _But she chose me, instead._

It was easy to ignore the past when there was no one there to question you, but Sarah brought everything back, pressing those old scars until they bled. Until he feared making new ones.

"What happened?" she asked, gently.

"A… friend of mine. Her name was Koliada." Wild hair, and eyes that reflected stars even in the dark. It had been so long since he had thought of her. He had consciously pushed her away.

"A friend?" She drew away from him, raising herself on one elbow. It had been a long time since he had seen her look so wary. She was quiet a full minute, searching his face, and he waited; impatience would only increase her suspicion. "You told me, the first time we were together, that there had never been anyone else who mattered."

He had meant it. None had ever mattered like her. Most had never mattered more than simple pleasure, but there were shades between that had not been elucidated in the passion of the moment that she referenced. _Soft beneath him and so close and tempting and desperate, he was desperate; please with all that is left of me let not all my dreams be denied._

"No one else has been to me what you are." He spoke the words carefully. "Yes, we were lovers, occasionally, but she was also my teacher. There was never any expectation of permanence or monogamy."

"It sounds like she was important, though," she said, shortly.

He did his best to hide his delight at her jealousy, but could not prevent a small smile that widened slightly when her eyes narrowed further—perhaps she thought the smile was at the memory? _So much the better._ "She was my mentor; such relationships are commonly found by the young when they come Below. They became even more common as more of us faded, as the young became more precious. We could not stand that knowledge be lost. Koli and I found each other because I had an aptitude for her work; she is the one who taught me to manipulate Time."

"Is… is that all she taught you?"

"No," he answered simply, and leaned in to kiss up her throat, towards her ear. He let the magic in his body flow, there, stimulating the nerve endings where he touched to call up the sensation of gentle heat. She flinched, at first, but then relaxed into the familiar caresses, only to jump back with a yelp when he used his tongue to flick the sensation of ice against the pressure point behind her ear.

"Jareth!" The combination of arousal, amusement, and irritation in her tone and expression were so familiar that he relaxed, tired of teasing her. Jealousy was amusing and gratifying, but she must know her place, must know how important she was to him.

"It is not merely a work of pleasure, my dear. It is incredibly delicate magic, requiring exquisite control and precision. To make use of it in a moment of passion demonstrates magical maturity in the arena of control. For this reason, it is quite unusual for a pair in such a relationship _not_ to be lovers. It is expected. It is also expected that they will separate when the teaching is done. In the end, thus, while I did care for her, those feelings were not at all romantic, but rather somewhere between the fraternal and the filial."

He could feel her searching him for signs of deception, but he had no reason to hide now that the topic was open. "She and I never had _this_." He reached to cup her face, to bring her close, to feather kisses across her cheeks. To make her _see_ , though he struggled to say it. "My Sarah." It was a whisper, and her eyes fluttered closed. He could feel the heat of her, the trembling edge that wanted to believe.

Finally, cautiously, she nodded, then leaned in, capturing his lips briefly in an intense kiss. For a moment, he hoped the discussion was done. But then she moved away, pulling the hand from her cheek and meeting his eyes again as she asked, "What happened to her?"

The question brought the memories back in a flood. His mind filled with faces he had not realized he remembered, even names so far lost he could not recall forgetting them.

"As perhaps you have ascertained, I spent very little time with my own people once I was brought Underground. A few hundred years in Perun's court, as he faded away, and then another few hundred here, while Dareios, the last Goblin King, still ruled. In all that time, Koli was the only one I was ever close to other than my mother.

"When I was bound to the Labyrinth, as Dareios' heir, our friendship ended. She stayed at the World Tree, in Zaleta's diminished court. I saw her only once after, mere years after I became the Goblin King, when she came to say goodbye. It was the only time she ever visited the Labyrinth." He remembered the pity in her eyes, the way she saw the Labyrinth as a trap, though he had tried to show her its beauty.

"Goodbye?" Sarah's voice was soft and patient.

He nodded. "When we were close, she was always drawn to the Above, drawn to the people who still called out to her. In the end, she did not fade away; she returned Above, determined that Men should not forget her." Sarah's hands were still, her gaze calm, a veil drawn over the emotions that might hide in their depths. "Eventually, she died, Above, but she was successful, and her songs are still sung. But if her work might have aided the World Tree we will never know, for it was gone before she finished. Sometimes I fear that her departing may instead have hastened that end, for Zaleta was weak and losing Koli weakened her further. And as my nearest remaining neighbor, that loss... was very painful to bear. I do not recall more than three hundred of the thousand days that followed." He stopped, hoping that that might be enough, and looked up to see that her eyes were now brimming with tears.

He drew her close to kiss them away, the gesture serving also as a shield against his own remembered loneliness. She was here, warm, and _his_. That empty time was ended at last. Sometimes it still felt like a dream. He ended with a kiss to her lips, hot and harsh with leashed passion and possession.

"I think I understand," she said, when he let her go. "I won't let him pull me away, Jareth. I won't let anyone pull me away. You know I love you."

"And you know," he answered, "that I love you." _Let her see; do not make me say it. Sarah, I need you this much. Sarah, you have this power over me._

She kissed him, again, and it felt like an answered prayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Slavic goddess Koliada, (also spelled Koljada or Kolyada), is associated with the sky and sunrise, and also with Time and the Winter Solstice, the power of the light over the dark (since the Solstice is when the days start getting longer again). Her celebration persists today as part of the Christmas rituals of these countries; they sing carols called Kolyadka which are supposed to entreat or predict health and good fortune for a home in the New Year. The English song "Carol of the Bells" is based on the melody of one of these songs, though the words are quite different in Ukranian and there it is associated with New Year rather than Christmas.
> 
> Also, since I've had someone ask: don't give yourself a headache trying to track how many days pass Underground for every day Above. It's somewhere between two and three days, and varies with the length of the day, and it isn't really important. I've given the Aboveground date so that you don't have to try to figure it out.


	5. I Could Get Used to You

_January 3, 2011, 6:31 AM_

It was rare that Toby _wanted_ to go to work. His job was a logical way to pay the bills, not a vocation; that was one reason the idea of living on Sarah's money for a year had been so tempting. He might have done it, too, if the economy wasn't such shit, but there would be time later, once things were booming again.

But today, he wanted to go to work, because, counting his commute, work meant at least nine hours away from the baby.

He had been woken up, at least three times, that night, by _fucking crying_. When did babies start to sleep through the night? Could he ever hope for a full night's sleep? If they didn't solve this, maybe she wasn't staying after all.

 _Fucking. Crying._ It was quiet, now, thank God. He rolled over and put his head under the covers, determined to let the snooze go a bit.

A few minutes later, he smelled coffee. Well, that was one benefit of having a roommate, anyway. He didn't have to remember to set up a programmable coffee machine. He'd gotten a new machine for his birthday, with a timer, but he'd given up on setting it after waking up to nothing but hot water three days in a row.

He dressed, and wandered out to the living room. The kid was sleeping, thank God.

"Hey!" Sarah greeted him cheerfully. "Coffee's on; did you want some eggs?"

He blinked. It was too early in the morning for this shit. Usually he stared at the wall, and then checked his email, and then got a coffee on the way to work if he hadn't had the brainpower to start the machine.

"Did you even sleep?" he managed, finally.

"Of course," she answered, with a smile. "I just don't need nearly as much as you do. One of the benefits."

"Oh." _Brilliant answer, Toby. Truly, you're a fucking genius._ She did have a nice smile. "Benefits?" He plopped down in a chair at the kitchen table.

"Of…" she made a vague gesture, one that took in her eyes. She still looked human, but… oh. "So, eggs?"

"What? Um. Sure?"

"How do you take them? Scrambled when you were ten, I know, but—"

"Scrambled is good."

"Scrambled eggs, coming right up!"

Just then, the coffee stopped dripping, and before he could even get up, she was there, pouring a mug for him and fetching sugar and milk. He spooned in three teaspoons of sugar and ignored the milk, then took as big a gulp as he dared with it still so hot. He could feel the warmth burning down his throat, and he felt more awake already. He closed his eyes and took another sip, but opened them when she placed a plate on the table in front of him. Scrambled eggs, and—wait— _toast?_

"Sarah, my toaster was—" on the fritz, about ready to explode, a fire hazard, frequently burning bread black….

"I know. I fixed it."

"Fixed it?"

"Yeah." She flicked her finger out, and a little ball, like a marble, appeared at the tip. She closed her hand and it disappeared, looking almost like it had dissolved into her finger. "It's easier, today, now that I don't have to 'port every few hours." Oh.

He took a bite of egg; it was delicious. He could definitely get used to this.

He smiled at her, and he was just about to say so, to say thank you, when he was interrupted by _fucking crying_ from the other room. He put his hands to his ears, trying to drown out the sound.

"Sorry," she said, and darted out of the room. He could hear her cooing, that noise women make at babies. After a moment he heard the bathroom door close.

Fucking crying, and baby shit. And magic glass balls that fixed his toaster. What was he getting himself into?

He managed the eggs, and was pouring himself another cup of coffee when she came back into the kitchen, now holding the child. Somehow, one-handed, she managed to open jars and fix what she needed, and soon the kid was sucking on a bottle, her eyes on the ceiling.

"Sorry, I should've—" he broke off. Should've helped. Should've what, filled the bottle? Measured? Offered to hold her? Babies were a mystery.

"Don't worry; I can handle it. I don't want you to feel obligated; I know this is a lot to take on."

"If you say so." Coffee and breakfast had done wonders for his brain. He checked the time; 7:15, about time to get going. He grabbed his wallet and pulled out some money. "Here. For lunch. There isn't much in the house. And you've got my phone number, right? And the spare key?"

"I'll be fine." She smiled at him again.

"And help yourself to anything else… books, dvds, the computer…."

"Dvds?" She raised an eyebrow.

He laughed. "Movies on disc. You know, like a CD. Do you not remember those?" Come to think of it, he'd been in his teens before his parents bought a set.

"Oh!" She smiled. "They were really, really new. But I think I can figure it out. I mean, CD player on the outside, VCR on the inside, right?" He nodded; he'd never thought of it that way. "And you have books. And this little girl should keep me entertained!" She smiled at the child, and the girl made a little _oooh_ sound, around the bottle. Far better than the crying.

"Great, okay—I'll be home around 5:30, then, probably."

"We'll be here."

* * *

It was odd, he reflected, as he walked to the train, to think that he'd be coming home to someone. He never had, really. He and Erin had dated for almost two years, but they hadn't lived together; it hadn't been serious enough, even though his mother seemed to think it should've been. If they'd been serious, maybe she wouldn't have given him up when she moved away. There hadn't even been a suggestion of long distance, or of him moving too. That had hurt, at the time—mostly because it pretty much sucked to feel unwanted—but it wasn't like he was ready to really settle down, anyway. Still, someone like Sarah… she put him at ease with her every look, and he couldn't deny that he _liked_ the idea of her being there when he got home, especially if the baby was quiet.

The baby. Maybe today Sarah would come up with a name. But would he ever get used to the _noise_? Would a bigger apartment help?

Maybe she could magic something.

What _could_ she do, with magic? She didn't seem to be very powerful, at least not compared to how she talked about the fucking _Goblin King_ , but she'd made the bassinet, and somehow fixed his toaster, and dressed herself, too. He'd asked about that last thing, when they were picking out clothes for her yesterday, and she'd gotten a rather distant look on her face and changed the subject. It was a look he was already learning to recognize: it meant, "I miss the fucking Goblin King."

As soon as he'd figured that out, he found that he wanted to make sure she never looked like that ever again. She had him and the kid and a whole new world to explore, _and_ , as she'd told him, she was basically immortal and had her own magic; there really was no reason to go all sappy over the asshole she'd run away from. She should be looking forward, not back.

But the magic. What were its limits? He'd tried to ask, but too many of his ideas were formed from modern fantasy, especially Harry Potter. What she called "Transportation" seemed to be similar to apparition, but that was where the parallels stopped. Everything else she'd tried to explain, over meals or in broken bits of conversation during their shopping, had been way the hell outside his experience; she said "Form" and "Magic" and "Summon" like words that should mean a hell of a lot more than they did in the dictionary. Sometimes, though, it almost sounded like science; she spoke of perception and fundamental elements and even atoms. Science had never really been his strong point.

And, he'd been wrong about her and time travel.

That was the most ridiculously amazing thing about this, he'd decided, once he had the chance to think. She hadn't just popped up Above— _Transferred_ up Above—she had gone back two years and _then_ popped Up. The kid's birthday was, technically, sometime in September 2012. She was about four months old, and also, sort of, negative twenty-one. Not even a twinkle in her mother's eye. Had the girl even met the father yet? _Here's a hint, honey: birth control_. But then again, without the kid, Sarah wouldn't have come back to him, not yet. And he didn't want to give her up.

Even if he did like the idea of Sarah just coming to him, without the kid. He would have gone to the park again next Christmas, right? And after? And someday…? Right? She wouldn't just… give up on him… even if she'd never argued, or whatever, with the fucking Goblin King?

He hadn't had the courage to ask.

They'd bought perishables at Target—a few more bottles, diapers, wipes, socks, and a small bin to hold it all. At the Goodwill, they'd found clothing for her and a few things for the child, a stroller/carrier contraption that he wasn't entirely sure about but which had certainly pleased Sarah, and a used Pack'n'Play, where the kid could sleep once she was a little bigger. They'd grabbed dinner, and then found a taxi back to his apartment; they had too much to carry. Once back home, he'd hoped to talk to her more, but the child had been demanding, and then he'd seen that she was swaying on her feet, exhausted, still, from her travels. He couldn't ask more of her, then; they would talk tonight.

The automated voice announced his stop, and he jumped for the door as it opened, joining the throng pushing out. He'd been so wrapped up, he'd nearly missed it.

He closed his eyes, briefly, and there were her green eyes, smiling at him. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

He hadn't been able to get her off his mind, all day long. At least now he didn't need to pretend to care about anything else, anymore. As he walked back to the train, Toby pulled his phone and called Sarah, hoping she'd remembered to keep the phone accessible.

It rang for a long time, and finally clicked over to the automated voicemail. Damn. But as he started to speak, another call came through. Good; she knew how to call him back.

"Sarah?"

"Hey, sorry. I was changing Ruth." Her voice sounded a little shaky, but it might have been the connection.

"Ruth? You named her?"

"Yeah." She paused, and he could hear her breathe. It did sound like something was wrong—like she'd been crying.

"Are you okay?"

"Well enough," she answered, but he knew it wasn't the whole story. "Nothing you can—nevermind." She cut herself off, but he didn't think he'd imagined the hint of a sob in her voice. _Fucking Goblin King_. She was probably making _that face_ again.

"If you say so." He could stand here arguing her into telling him, or he could go home and _make_ her tell him. "Anyway, I was going to pick up dinner. How do you feel about Chinese?"

* * *

Making her tell him was not as simple as just asking. In fact, he really had no idea how to bring it up. He found her in the living room, when he opened the door, the child drowsing on her chest, smiling at the book she held open in one hand— _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets._ He should've known she'd go for that first, after yesterday; she must have spent a lot of time reading while he'd been gone. Her face was clear; there was no sign of the tears he'd thought he heard. Had he imagined it?

He greeted her, and invited her to the kitchen. She entered without the child, but with the book, and he laughed. He'd been much the same, the first time.

She met his eyes, and shook her head, then, very deliberately, closed the book and put it down on the table. As he went for plates, she went for glasses, and poured for them both.

They sat down, and she asked about his day, but he didn't have much to say about it—"I went to work, I crunched numbers, I came home." _The same thing I do every day_.

"I see you're enjoying the books," he said, casting about for a more interesting topic.

"I am," she said, with a wry smile. "Even though they're wrong about practically everything."

"Wrong?" That hadn't been the reaction he had been expecting.

"Oh, Magic. Goblins." She smiled. "It's quite unique, if nothing like Below—the way things really are." She shrugged. " _He_ would just poke holes in it—I can see logical errors already, ways the plot could be stronger—but at this point I'm just enjoying the story, and the world. It's very inventive."

"The— _He_ —" _Fuck, I wasn't going to call him that_. "Your... partner… would do what?" _Damn, don't like partner either, don't remind her._

She laughed, and he realized that this was the first time he'd heard her speak of the man without pain. "Oh, he delights in pointing out the errors in construction of stories that don't pass muster—which is most stories that don't have Underground origins. You should have heard him about _Peter and the Wolf_." The wistful smile was back, but it was obvious that the memory was a happy one.

"What's wrong with _Peter and the Wolf_?" he asked, a little affronted. He'd always loved that story, had wanted to be clever, just like Peter. And she was mad at the Goblin King, wasn't she? Why was she smiling?

"He didn't think the wolf was smart enough," she said, her smile widening. "He said the story should be more complicated, and then it would be better."

"What gives him the right to judge?" Toby felt absurdly insulted, like the _fucking Goblin King_ had just talked down to the whole of Mankind.

Sarah just rolled her eyes. "That's who he _is_ , Toby. The Master of Dreams. The King of Fairy Tale. Those aren't official titles, like—well, you know which—but they are true." She shrugged again. "Still, I think sometimes he _is_ too quick to dismiss human endeavor. His people did so much for us, and _he_ does so much for us… it's… it's like he doesn't see the trees for the forest." She sighed, leaning forward on her hands. "I mean, you said yourself that you read more after those books, right?"

He nodded. "Actually, they were kind of known for it. All these kids who _hated_ reading who suddenly couldn't get enough. I wasn't one of those—I liked reading where I enjoyed the subject—but I read more, after. I looked up the classics—you know, _Lord of the Rings_ , that sort of thing. And there are a lot of copycats, too—lots of other magical young adult novels written in the past ten or so years."

"See?" Sarah smiled, and this time he felt like she was smiling for _him_. "He has trouble thinking of it that way—thinking beyond that which is of Below and that which is not. I understand why—it's enough of a burden to sense the connections he does—but it limits him in understanding how those connections can be built." She shrugged again. "Also, I think it's maybe an occupational hazard—he can't really read a story just for the pleasure of it. He's _always_ analyzing."

That sounded tiring, but Toby didn't say anything. He wanted to dislike the man, dammit. He pushed the thought away.

"Finished?" he asked, instead, reaching for Sarah's empty plate.

"Yeah," she said, and then she looked up, as though she'd heard something in the other room. "Baby's awake." When he had put the plates away and joined her in the living room, he found her sitting on the couch, the baby on her knees, making faces to try to get the baby to respond. The baby's mouth opened, but no sound emerged.

"She's awake? I didn't hear her." Which was just plain weird, considering how often she'd woken him up in the past two days.

"Oh—that's the other thing I did today, magically. I set up a spell so that only I can hear her. Sort of a… magical baby monitor." He watched as she tickled the girl's stomach, and the baby made a face, but no laughter went along with it.

"You couldn't just make it so I won't hear her crying?" Five minutes ago he'd been sure he never wanted to hear a baby fuss again, but not hearing her at all was just… bizarre.

She shook her head. "I don't know how. Figuring this out was hard enough. But I know we woke you up last night… I don't want her to be a burden to you, Toby."

Oh. "You didn't have to do that," he answered. He didn't want to be woken up all the time, true, but… "It's not that I don't appreciate what you're trying to do for me, but I'd rather be part of her life… if… if that's okay. I mean, at least to hear her. What if she needed someone and you couldn't come?" Sarah was looking at him oddly, her head tilted to one side. In spite of her human appearance, he felt, suddenly, the force of her otherworldliness; she seemed about to offer him an important choice, and he readied himself to answer her.

Then she shook her head, and the moment faded. "It isn't that I don't appreciate what you're trying to do for me…" she said, under her breath, then she looked up at him again. "Not yet," she said, louder.

"Not yet, what?"

She paused. "You said yesterday that I could stay last night, but… you haven't said beyond that."

It was true, he realized, now that she said it. He'd been acting like he'd assumed she was staying—she must have noticed—but they hadn't actually discussed it. Quickly, he outlined his two-week plan, already feeling that it was probably a bit superfluous. When he finished, she looked at him thoughtfully.

"It's a good plan," she said. "We do need to get to know each other. And two weeks… well, hopefully I'll have some idea of where else I can go, if it doesn't work out."

"Great!" he said, waving off her concerns. She was staying. In her lap, the baby squirmed, then frowned; Sarah looked down at her and laughed, then stroked her cheek, as she'd done that first day. Right. Baby. "So… about the kid. Is the… spell… hard to do? I mean, maybe if, just when I'm asleep?"

She was silent, a moment. "That would be a good compromise," she allowed. "It's a little more work, but it's worth it, if you want it; and I might be able to figure out another way, later, especially if this works out." She closed her eyes, briefly, then snapped her fingers next to the child's throat. Sound clicked on like a radio, and he could hear that she was making little grunting noises as she squirmed. Little fussy noises that looked to be pushing towards a full-on yell. "Of course, she picks this moment to stop being cheerful," Sarah said, ruefully. "Better see if she's hungry."

That was all the kid seemed to do—eat, cry, sleep, and shit. Well, he'd been too dead on his feet to shower that morning, so he'd take care of that now.

When he emerged, refreshed, she was grabbing changing supplies, and he could smell the reason. _Maybe there's a spell for that_. He stood in the living room as she took the child away, feeling strangely awkward in his own home.

Normally, in the evening, he would turn on the television, or open his laptop, or usually both. Or fire up the Xbox, but Sarah really didn't seem like the kind of person who'd enjoy shooters, so that was out. He'd never had a girl just… around… in his home, before. With Erin it had been romantic: wine and chocolate, cuddling during movies, submitting to her favorite shows, and sex on pretty much every horizontal surface in the place. Anyone he'd had over since had skipped the romance and gone straight to the sex.

Sex. Sarah. _Right, okay. She's hot. She's also your sister. Get a grip, Toby._

In an effort to distract himself from thoughts that really wouldn't do any good, he looked around the room, picking out the signs that indicated her presence. You could learn a lot about a person by the way they lived.

Despite her efforts to be tidy, she had imprinted herself, already, on this space: the pillows and blanket were neatly folded at one end of the couch, the baby stuff was piled in a corner, and a few books— _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone_ , which she must have read earlier, in addition to _Chamber of Secrets_ —had been pulled off the shelf and piled on the end table his mother had _insisted_ on bringing him last time she came to town. Previously, he'd just used a folding TV table. Next to them, under the lamp, there was a brass bookend, shaped like a little, gnarled dwarf. That had definitely not been there that morning.

He picked it up, turning it over in his hands. The bookend was something else his mother had brought him with the table, something from his parents' home. He'd found it in the attic when he was ten, and brought it downstairs. Mom didn't like it, probably because it had been with the stuff that Linda had left behind. It had been in his bedroom, faithfully propping up his old _Goosebumps_ collection, when he moved out to go to college. Last summer Mom had cleaned up his room; apparently, "keeping your room just like you left it, so you'll always have a home to come back to," didn't quite extend to the decorations and objects you had liked and she hadn't. She had donated the books, and she'd told him to "donate or keep" the bookend, as long as it was out of her house. He'd put it on the bottom shelf of his bookshelf, and forgotten about it.

Why had Sarah retrieved it?

She entered the room, then, the child snuggled into her shoulder, quiet and content. She glanced at him, and he saw her eyes flick down to his hands; she straightened her shoulders, her face set, and continued over to the corner with the bassinet. What was wrong with the bookend?

She leaned over the baby, and he heard a soft _snap_ of her fingers as she reapplied whatever magic would keep the child quiet. She approached the couch, and sat down, picking up her book very deliberately. She didn't look at him. Her face was carefully blank.

So this was what had been bothering her earlier.

"Sarah?" he asked, and she looked up at him. "Is something wrong?"

She met his eyes, then glanced to the side, and then, finally, at her hands, clasped across the book, which she had folded closed, her place marked with a finger in the page. For a moment, he thought she wouldn't answer; he sat next to her, and covered her hands with his. He did his best not to fidget. This look was beyond "I miss the Goblin King."

"Today was the first time I've been able to slow down long enough to think," she said, finally. "Think, not act. To realize how much I miss… _all_ of it. The bookend… it looks like a dear friend of mine. It was mine, before. I found it… just before you called."

"I'm sorry, Sarah, I can—"

She shook her head. "No, it's fine. I got it out because I wanted to remember. It—I just— _He_ isn't the only one I miss." One hand loosened itself from his grasp; she wiped at her eyes, delicately, drawing away tears that had not fallen. When she looked up, her face had cleared.

"I'm sorry," she said, and her voice sounded far more normal. "I am really glad to be here, with you, Toby." She squeezed his hand.

He wanted to hold her, to soothe her, to let her cry on his shoulder. To kiss her temple and stroke her arm. To drive those shadows out of her eyes. He knew he could make her happy, if she'd only give him the chance.

She pulled her hand out of his, and returned to her book; he could tell from her reactions that she had reached the climax. He opened his laptop and tried to distract himself, but he kept coming back to the tears Sarah hadn't quite shed.

Well, it was only the second day they had spent together. She would see, soon enough, that she was better off here, away from everything she had run from. Away from the fucking Goblin King.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DVD format was released in the US in 1997, and outstripped VHS to become the dominant form of home video distribution in 2003.
> 
> Ruth is a Hebrew name that means "friend;" in the scriptures, the character Ruth is a Moabite who follows her mother-in-law to Bethlehem and marries Boaz, King David's great-grandfather. The name also has origins in English; there, it means "compassion."


	6. Masters of the Unsaid Word

_2253 Days (September 12, 2001)_

"Close your eyes. The magic is all around you, in the earth beneath your feet, in the air you breathe, in the blood in your veins. It is a sense of energy, ready to be gathered and released. The essence of the world, the essence of your spirit, and you can control and direct it. The air becomes heavy with awareness. The earth becomes denser, more solid. Your body strengthens with possibility. Can you feel it?" Jareth stood behind her, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other stretched forward, following her outstretched right arm. He cupped the back of her hand in his palm, his fingers guiding hers as they stretched, her palm flat.

"I don't know." She sounded angry, annoyed; not at all the proper mindset. He pulled her closer, leaning in to kiss her temple, the corner of her jaw, behind her ear.

"Relax, my dear," he whispered, as she tilted her head to one side, allowing him access to her neck. "You must let go, relax your mind and body, allow yourself to simply sense. It is early, yet." He continued his ministrations, kissing slowly down the side of her neck, his fingers caressing her hip.

"I can't think at all when you're doing that," she said, her voice caught between arousal and annoyance.

"Good," he answered, "do not try." He had brought her to the Field of Doors for this experiment; it was a beautiful meadow, and special to them, and it breathed with Magic. He laced the fingers of his right hand with hers, and pulled her arm in, holding her tightly as he continued his kisses. She wriggled against him, and he growled, momentarily distracted; true seduction had not been his intent, but that was difficult to remember when she pressed into him as she was doing now; when she smelled so good; when little flashes of every time she had pressed back into him, so, flashed across his mind in a moment. But they had been trying only two minutes and twenty-two seconds; he knew she was capable of more, if only she could let go and let her senses free. But as long as she was angry and impatient, they would get nowhere.

"Jareth! What happened to _focus_."

"You will not be able to focus properly until you _relax_." He let his knees bend, drawing her down with him into the grass. He arranged her on his lap, and kissed her, briefly, but she pulled away.

"I don't want that kind of _relax_ , Jareth," she said, sharply. "I need to learn this."

Need to learn this? "Why?"

She pulled out of his arms and settled on the grass; he let her go. "I just… I just do. Don't you get it?"

He did not. Certainly he wished her to learn, for she desired it, but there was no need to rush. He knew she was driven to find ways to help him work, but this was one aspect that could not be rushed. The magic would come in its own time. He was thankful for the simple confidence that it would come at all.

"Sarah, please. You have forever; there is no need to drive yourself so hard." Recently she had taken it upon herself to clean up the library, by hand, though he had offered assistance; many days he had found her there, dusty and disheveled, paging through some volume of Underground or Aboveground lore. Now that her magic had begun to manifest, it was becoming an obsession that was nearly frightening.

"Forever." She rolled over, away from him, propping her head on her hands and staring out across the meadow, towards the distant wall that marked its edge. Something told him not to touch her, that this was a moment for loneliness. Instead, he arranged himself beside her, leaning on one elbow, staying carefully out of her line of sight. He did not touch her, but if she leaned towards him, only slightly, she would be in his arms.

 _I will be there for you when the world falls down_. One human dream at a time was difficult to touch, but when so many of those he could reach dreamt the same dream, it was far easier to understand, and to know what had happened in the world Above to cause such pain, and he knew she felt it far more strongly; she had known that world. Her grief was her own, not the simple echo of others' pain. He found he no longer cared if she _desired_ comfort; he wanted to touch her hair, stroke her back. _My Sarah. Not theirs, anymore._ He reached forward, thinking to lay a hand on her shoulder; it seemed suddenly very important that she look at him. She had been looking away for exactly sixty seconds, now. But as he moved, she turned to him, resting her forehead on his chest, and he brought his arm around her gently, a comfort rather than a demand.

"I—I could feel them," she said, quietly. He held still, waiting. "All those people, begging for help, from _anyone_ , and I can't even go to them! I have enough to _sense_ but no power to _do_. I need to learn to _do_."

"Sarah," he said, controlling his voice so that he could speak to her gently. "You could not have saved them." She had chosen him, once, over all Mankind; could she not do so again? But no: just as it had been with the boy, this was natural, that she would love them, and her love for them had allowed her to return to him, as well; he must remember that. For her own sake, and thus for his, she must give some of her heart to others, or he would find himself, one day, with nothing. Caring not at all was just as dangerous as caring too much.

"I might have saved a few." Her voice was very small.

"Sarah," he coaxed, "look at me." He brought his hand around to hold her chin as she raised it, her eyes glittering with tears, and he kissed her slowly, gentle and chaste. "I have known more tragedy than you can imagine. The pain of the falling of each Kingdom of the Underground is shared between all those who remain, and I have felt many in my life, each worse than the last as we diminished. And I can feel that suffering Above, just as you have, except that my link is no longer tied to my own nation; it spreads across the world." She leaned into him, again, accepting his comfort, now.

"How do you live with it?"

"I do because I must."

He would not tell her that one nation or another meant little to him, that the reasons men killed each other could not weigh with him, that he could not afford himself the luxury of preferring one man to another beyond their value to the Underground, with the exception, perhaps, of one or two. Loving her had nearly destroyed the Underground; those hundreds of days of waiting for her to use her wish, to renew or condemn him, had driven him closer to the edge than all his years of loneliness. He could not afford so to claim a people. Those of his kind who had done so had lived with their people, and then had died with them. Koliada had been the last, not the first.

_He stands in his darkened bedchamber, watching his Sarah sleep, her skin pale against the dark sheets, a small smile lingering on her lips. He longs to kiss that smile, to wake her, to love her again, but if he does, he will lose the will to do what must be done. He can think back, can count every moment that he has held her, can call to mind perfectly, exactly, her every movement, her every word, her every gift, her every surrender. His Sarah who called him, who challenged him, who chose him. His Sarah, who refused to simply submit to him, but who, rather, had actively claimed him, so irrevocably that he would always be hers._

_His Sarah, who was human, and bound by Time, and who must understand what he was asking of her. His Sarah who, when she understood, would be wisest to turn away. Almost he had not brought her here, tonight; almost he had sent her home the previous evening. He had spent the entire day preparing himself to do so, only to find that he could not, that he needed some small moment more, something to remember. And so he had brought her to his bed, where none other had come since he had taken the Kingdom, which he had promised himself, once, would not be shared with anyone. It will be torture, he knows, to sleep here again, while her scent lingers—as he will ensure it always will—but to have nothing of her would be worse, when he sent her home, when she stayed Above, as he trusts she will be wise enough to do._

_And even should he fall, her world will go on long enough that no harm would come to her. At least she will be safe, and happy, and loved, until the day she dies._

"Sarah," he said, again, pulling himself back to the present. _Forty-seven seconds she had let him hold her, while he remembered. Forty-eight seconds, now, of gentle wind and cool grass and Sarah under his arm_. "Beloved." He kissed her temple, inhaling the scent of her hair. "You are ready to learn more magic, more direct manipulation. It is true. But you must know, now, that you cannot save every person. As long as you have that goal, as long as you cannot simply accept the magic that will come to you, you will fight yourself, and you will not succeed. You must relax. You must want it for its own sake."

He pressed her gently back, so that she lay in the grass, looking up at him, and Summoned magic to his hand, forming one of the crystals she was so familiar with. He danced it across his fingers, enjoying the attention it required, the balance and dexterity, then held it in front of her eyes, as he had done once, so long ago. _Do you want it?_

She smiled at him, fondly, and he knew that she remembered, too, and that this was no longer a point of contention between them. They had been over every step of her journey, now, and had argued and laughed and eventually, agreed. Old injuries, now healed properly, plagued them no longer. She had taught him that.

"I want it," she said, and reached out.

He Released the magic into the air, and smiled at the outraged look on her face. "Then take it for yourself, my Sarah. Relax." He kissed her brow, and her eyes closed; he remembered, briefly, how she always looked asleep in bed, so relaxed, so carefree.

"Now empty your mind, and listen."

* * *

By the end of the afternoon, she succeeded in Summoning a small amount of magic, and fashioning it into a crystal the size of her thumbnail. It was not truly necessary to work through a form—he, himself, frequently conjured straight from magic—but learning to bring the magic forward was the first lesson, and the crystals were a solid, recognizable way to achieve that goal. She offered it to him, as he had done earlier, and he laughed, at first, until, watching him, she tilted her head in that thoughtful way that he both loved and feared and asked him, "What are your dreams, Jareth?"

"You have seen my Dreams," he answered, deliberately misinterpreting her. And then, hoping to distract, he added, "And you know I dreamed you would be mine." He cupped her cheek, then slid his hand back into her hair, bringing her mouth to his. He kissed her for a full minute, but when she pulled back, there was none of the daze of desire he had intended to invoke in her eyes. Instead, she watched him with worry, and a piercing clarity.

"I can't be all you want, Jareth. What about your dreams that haven't been granted?"

_Sarah, here in this meadow, chasing a child with her dark hair and his blue eyes. She calls the child to her, and comes to his side. He kisses her, and the child, and they disappear._

_Sarah in an evening gown, on his arm at the Opera, Above. They hold hands, occasionally closing their eyes to share the visions of the past._

_Sarah standing in the spot where once there was a park where she practiced lines, marveling at the changes Mankind has wrought over the centuries._

"You are the most important," he answered; she stared at him, flatly, waiting for him to go on. She was too insightful for her own good. "It does no good to dwell on that which cannot be. Please, do not ask again." She looked down, and took his hand.

This time, when he kissed her, she let him press her back into the soft grass, and when he touched her, she responded passionately, as ever. But after, holding her gently as the sun descended past the walls of the Labyrinth, he looked down and saw that her eyes were far away.

* * *

She was so still that he thought she slept, wrapped in a conjured blanket where they lay on the hill, but as the last of the sunlight faded, she spoke.

"Tell me about the stars," she said softly. "I meant to ask so long ago... but it's so easy to forget." She shifted, so that she was looking up at him. "You told me once that you're always aware of Time Above... do you ever lose track of time?"

"I always know," he answered, "but there have been long periods of time when I found it did not matter." He tangled a hand in her hair, focusing on the feel of those individual strands between his fingers.

"When a Kingdom…" she trailed off.

"Yes, but not only then."

"When I..."

"No." Every moment of her absence was etched into his memory, a clear and painful reminder of all that he had given up.

"Then—"

"Average days are the hardest."

She was silent, then, a while, her hand still against his chest, and he wondered at the goal of these questions. He had warned her, in his letter, and every other time she had asked, of the pains and pleasures of this life, and still she had chosen it, had chosen him. His arms came around her more firmly, as though holding her body in place would hold her mind as well.

Seeking distraction, he returned his attention to the heavens. There was no moon, tonight, and he traced the familiar shapes of the prominent constellations, awaiting the deeper darkness that would bring forth their edges, and those other patterns less known. Though the first to his mind were the names he had learned as a child, the simple names of the folk of Rus', he knew the patterns of every culture as well as he knew the history of his people. In many ways, they were one and the same.

"Tell me about the stars," she said again, and he was grateful that she had abandoned that other, unhelpful train of thought.

"What do you wish to know?" he asked.

"You told me, once, that the stars here were the same as the stars Above, but I can't see it. There are too many, and they're too bright."

He kissed the top of her head, laughing affectionately. "Look again, my dear. All the stars you know are there. It is only that there are many other stars, as well." When she was silent, he tried a different tack. "What is one constellation that you would always know, Above?"

"The Big Dipper, I guess," she answered. "Or... I think it's called Ursa Major?"

"Ursa Major comprises more stars than those, but yes. It is there." He pointed. "The stars you know are the body, and the tail, but look below: you see the legs, the head?" Seven bright points of light, and many only slightly dimmer, more even than could be seen Above.

"I see..." she paused, then, "wow, it really does look like a bear!" She frowned. "But... why a bear? It really couldn't be anything else."

"Blame Zeus; it was his story."

"What?"

And so he told her the tale of Callisto, a nymph and lover of Zeus, who had been turned into a bear, along with her son Arcas, immortalized as Ursa Minor. She was quiet, a minute, when he finished.

"That doesn't make sense," she said finally.

"Why not?"

She rose up on one elbow and turned to look at him fully, the movement throwing her face into shadow. "You do know what stars are, right?"

"I know what your scientists say," he answered.

"So Zeus can't have put them there, not unless you really _are_ gods, and you say you're not!"

"Stellar theory was never my strength; I cannot tell you exactly how it happens. But I know that it does: major figures of my people are represented there, in the sky, in some form, large or small."

"So scientists are just wrong? That doesn't make sense, Jareth."

"That was not my intended meaning. I do not believe they are wrong; the universe is vast and amazing, and I do believe that they are as correct as the know how to be. They merely do not know to take magic into account."

That argument silenced her.

"Furthermore," he went on, "it is not always as simple as one constellation relating to one story. That same collection of stars, which we discussed, was claimed as well by Tezcatlipoca, who ruled the Aztecs, several centuries after Zeus had departed."

"What about you?" she asked.

He laughed. "My own collection is very small; I did not place it."

"Who did?"

"I do not know."

"Show me."

He did, pointing out the landmarks in larger constellations, and demonstrating the technique that brought Magic into play to bring the cluster into focus amid the brighter stars that surrounded it. He had not thought of that little symbol in so long; it was merely another proof of his insignificance, compared to history: he would never wield the power of his elders. The days of glory had passed before his birth; they would not recur. On hopeful days he could be proud of his place, proud of his accomplishments, proud that he remained, that he continued, that Magic still touched the world Above. And there had been more hopeful days, since Sarah: days when he could let time pass because he was content.

"It's beautiful," she said, and he smiled, and shifted to kiss her as she turned to him. She was here, and his, and this place had dulled her earlier pain. Would that that pain could go completely; would that she could find in him what he found in her. Once he had believed she did; now he was less sure.

"Are you happy, Sarah?" The question was whispered on the edge of their kiss, out before he could think better of it. She pulled back to look at him, her hand against his cheek, then brought her lips to his again, kissing him hard, her mouth nearly punishing against his.

"I love you," she said, when she ended it.

"But are you happy?" he pressed, now fearing her answer.

She dropped her head, resting against his shoulder, and sighed. _No. But she will not say it._

"You told me how it would be," she said quietly. "You warned me, and I thought I understood. I didn't." She cut herself off, and he hated the tears that threatened, roughening her voice as she sought control.

"Sarah..." _I will never let you go._

He heard her swallow, felt the flutter of her eyelashes against his bare shoulder as she blinked, and when she looked up again her eyes were clear.

"It's harder than I expected," she said, seriously, "but I still can't see making another decision."

She pulled his head down to hers, her kisses desperate but loving, and he let himself relax into her, pushing aside his fears to take comfort in her presence. _It is forever; I will never let you go._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title references a quote by Winston Churchill: "We are masters of the unsaid words, but slaves of those we let slip out."
> 
> The Owl Cluster, also known as the ET Cluster or NGC 457, is an open star cluster found in the constellation Cassiopeia. It was discovered by William Herschel in 1787. Unfortunately, Above, it can't be seen with the naked eye. I first encountered it at a star party this past September and knew I had to find a use for it in this story. It's the first stellar object that I've seen in a telescope and immediately thought, "Yep, that looks just like what it's named for."
> 
> Tezcatlipoca was an Aztec/Toltec god who, according to the mythology, became their primary god after corrupting the god Quetzalcóatl. His prominence is associated with the rise of human sacrifice among the Aztec.
> 
> All other stellar objects or constellations mentioned here should hopefully be familiar to the average reader.


	7. Fairy Godmother

_January 5, 2011, 6:02 PM_

"Hey, Mom."

"Toby!" she exclaimed, and he held the phone slightly away from his ear. _This_ was why he never called her. "Toby, honey, I'm so glad you called, I need to talk to you about the weekend."

"Yeah, listen, Mom, so do I, you see, the thing is—"

"Your father promised me he'd get done early on Friday, but you know how he is, so I expect we won't get there until maybe eight, is a late dinner okay? Nine?"

"Sure, whatever, I'll just have a snack when I get home, but—"

"I'll call and get reservations at that—what was the place we ate last time?"

"Legal Sea Foods, Mom, but—"

"Now don't start with me about 'let's go to some small place on the water,' you know you can't trust them—"

"Legal's fine, Mom, I like Legal, but—"

"And then we'll just pop by your place, I have some things for you that I don't want to take to a hotel or leave in the car, you should really get a bigger place, Toby, and a guest room—"

"Mom! Would you please stop talking for a second?" Fed up with her interruptions, he'd gotten a little louder than he'd intended.

"Tobias Robert! There is no need to take that tone with me! I can hear you perfectly well."

He rolled his eyes, thankful that she'd never learned to use a webcam. Her discovery of Facebook had been bad enough. He thought longingly of his buddy David's mother, who flat-out refused to friend her son, claiming that he "didn't need her prying into his personal life." That would be bliss.

At least yelling had got her to shut up.

"Mom. I need to tell you something, so please listen."

"Tell me something? What is it? Did you pass your exam? Did you meet a girl? Are you going to move to California to be with Erin? Is she coming back? Is—"

"Mom! If you don't stop guessing, I'll never be able to tell you!"

"Well, honey, there's no need to be rude! What is it?"

 _I met this amazing girl, and she's my sister. I'm living with Linda Williams' daughter. I'm pretty sure the world has gone completely insane_. But all he said was, "I have a guest staying with me."

"A guest? Who? Someone I know?"

"Um… she used to live in your town, but I don't think you'd remember her. She—"

"She? A girl? You do have a girl? And she's living with you?"

"It's not like that, Mom. She's a friend. She needed help."

"What, she needed a couch? What sort of trouble is she in?"

Best to jump in with both feet. "She has a kid… a baby… and she's not with the baby's father." They had planned this, last night, after dinner, after Ruth was asleep, when he'd told her about their visit. Sarah had told him not to lie, although he wasn't quite sure why. Lying and saying she was a young widow, a friend from college, maybe a soldier's wife, would make this so much easier, but she insisted. She'd given him a list of things to say, actually. "Has a kid," nevermind that it's not hers. "Not with the father," nevermind that she'd never met him. "Hopes to reconcile with her ex." That last was a stretch, she'd said, although she hadn't elaborated, really. After all, as she said, she was still "his."

It was positively Jesuitical. Also, he was mostly trying to just not think about the Goblin King. Sarah had left him, after all, and he hadn't seen "I miss the fucking Goblin King" in her face yesterday, either. Maybe he wouldn't ever show up. Maybe he was too angry. Or maybe he just didn't love her. No matter what, she was in the real world, now, with him, and the Goblin King was far away. He might even stay that way, if he knew what was good for him.

Also, he had apparently stunned his mother into momentary silence.

"You… have a guest… with a kid? A single mother? Toby, I can't say I approve of this, what will—"

"It's not my kid, it's not a friend's kid, I met her through a friend at my bank." That one was really a stretch. Fortunately, Mom was making all the correct assumptions, just like Sarah had predicted.

"Toby, but you—"

"I know, I know, loose women, taking advantage, Mom, it's not like that. She's nice. She just needs help. It's January. She's only staying a few weeks."

"And you expect us to take her to dinner? I'm sure she can't afford a babysitter. Don't tell me you're paying for one."

"What? No. No. Mom, she's great with the kid and she doesn't expect me to help unless there's a real emergency—like excessive blood, not like 'oh I just need to step out for a moment.' We'll go to dinner with the three of us, as planned. I just wanted you to know, because she'll be here after."

"Oh. Well. You know I still don't like it and your father won't like it either, but you're a grown-up boy now." _Thanks, Mom, you really couldn't have said that any more condescendingly._ "You'll just have to make your own decisions. Don't come to us looking for help for her, though."

"I wouldn't dream of it. I'll see you Friday, okay? Say hi to Dad for me."

He stabbed his thumb viciously into the "end call" button; the one thing he missed about flip phones was that satisfying _snap_ when you ended a call that hadn't gone well. Although actually, that had probably gone about as well as he could have hoped. He knew she wouldn't approve of him "shacking up" with some girl he just met. Fucking puritanical sensibilities. As though he couldn't just be friends with a girl, either. His own birthday was seven months after his parents' anniversary; she hadn't been a saint either, so she could get off her fucking high horse.

Entering the living room, he found Sarah looking out into the night. The baby was asleep, thankfully.

"You heard all that?" he asked, quietly.

"My ears are better than yours, now," she answered, turning to face him. "I can't really say I expected any other response, but I hoped…. But it doesn't matter, now." She looked down.

He couldn't resist; he reached out and hugged her, one-armed, giving her an affectionate squeeze. "I know you want to see Dad, but he'll be here, after. Do you think he'll notice?"

"Notice?"

"You? He does remember being married to your mom."

She pursed her lips. "I—he won't—no. It won't be a problem." She looked down again. "They'll never know. Not unless I tell them, and even then, they might not believe. That's how it works—you _know_ , but you still don't _remember_ , nor will you. So I'll just be… your friend. Like we talked about."

He nodded. "Okay."

"Can you do that?"

"Yeah, I can."

"Good." She smiled. "And thanks." She stepped away from him, walking towards the kitchen. "Now, Ruthie's asleep; are you hungry?"

"Did you cook?" He had some frozen meals, and a lot of take-out menus. Yesterday they'd had leftover Chinese. Cooking was another skill he wanted to learn but hadn't quite made time for.

She laughed. "Well, if you count 'heating up Stouffers' as cooking, but yeah, there's lasagna." She shrugged. "I was an okay cook before—not great, but I wouldn't poison you—but I'm… rather out of practice." She opened the oven and removed the covered pan.

"So you didn't cook, Underground?"

"Nope. There was a covered dish in my room that generated food appropriate to the time of day. And you don't need to eat as much, there, either." She brought the dish to the table, and set it on a towel; he noticed then that she had already set the table. Noticing the direction of his gaze, she looked down, embarrassed.

"You…?" he asked, not even sure exactly what he was going to say.

"I thought it would be nice," she said. "You've done so much for me already, and I wanted to… to show you what I hope this will be like, at least for now."

"This?"

"If we stay beyond the next few weeks… like we talked about Monday."

Oh. "So what were you thinking?"

"Well… I still exist, legally, sort of, or at least I should. The problem is that no one remembers me; even if I'm in a computer, human eyes won't read my name, that kind of thing. _He_ explained it in detail, once, when I asked. But in the meantime, I don't have ID or anything, so I can't really go get a job. Not to mention, without my degree and without any work history, no one's going to give me a job that pays anything decent. Certainly not enough to put Ruthie in daycare. Right?"

He nodded, slowly. "So…?"

"So I have a few ideas, if we plan as though—as though _He_ isn't coming—" her voice caught, and he wanted to hug her, or maybe punch the Goblin King, or probably both. Someday he'd get her to let him go. Someday.

"Anyway," she had herself back under control, "for right now, I can't really work, but I have a lot of time, and some magic, and I can make your life easier. I'll do all the cooking and cleaning around here, shopping, laundry if you want, whatever. At the same time, I'll work on making myself exist again, legally, with magic. It'll probably always be awkward, but I might be able to nudge things along to the point where I can get documentation. Then, eventually, I'll have the option of going back to work. I was going to be a psychologist, did I tell you that?"

"A psychologist? Why?"

She shook her head. " _Him_. And you. And everything. Myths and fairy tales. I didn't believe the Underground was real—I thought I made it up. And I wanted to figure out why." She blinked. "Then it all _was_ real. That was actually a little confusing. But the _why_ was still important—why those stories resonate with us." She looked at him, her jaw captured in one hand, and suddenly he saw the professional, long denied; almost a stereotype of your sitcom analyst.

"What?"

"Can I ask… Toby, did you ever have an imaginary friend?"

"An imaginary friend?"

"Surely you've heard of that."

"Umm…." He took a huge bite of lasagna to give himself time to think. Truth be told, he _had_ had one imaginary… companion… but it was a little embarrassing, actually. Not very manly. He didn't want Sarah to think he was wimpy, or gay.

When he finally swallowed, he looked up. She was just watching him, smug amusement in every line of her face. She raised one eyebrow, and he almost _felt_ her question. Apparently stuffing his face had been an inadequate ruse.

"I, um." He looked down. "You know how, in the stories, if the story has a poor heroine, she often gets a fairy godmother who can do things for her? Make it better? But if it's a hero, and he's poor, most of the time it's only his own cleverness that lets him succeed. But then there are stories where the girl has to be clever too, like Rumpelstiltskin. There aren't any stories where the hero gets a fairy godmother, though, at least, none of the big ones, the ones I know. And I always thought that wasn't _fair_." Fuck, now he was blushing. Very manly, that. "I mean, not that I didn't think I could be clever or whatever, but it should go both ways, you know? So… that was what I wanted. A fairy godmother."

He rested his head in his hands, looking down. He couldn't look at her. She would be laughing at him. He had never told _anyone_ that, _ever_.

The silence stretched.

She probably thought he was an idiot.

The he heard her move, felt her hand on his back. Her hair fell in front of his face, and he felt her breath at his ear.

"You know I'll always be there for you, right?" she whispered.

 _You know I'll always be there for you, right?_ How many times had he heard that, through his teens? He'd been too old for imaginary fairy godmothers, then, he told himself. Of course he didn't hear any such thing.

But if he'd never heard any such thing, why did it sound like her voice? Why did she know exactly what to say?

When he finally managed to meet her eyes, marked, glowing, slanted, alien-but-familiar eyes—where had the glamor gone?—his mouth dried up; words failed him. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again, and then, finally, croaked out, "I—you—you mean you—"

"You don't remember, Toby, but I made you that promise before I went Underground."

"I—you—you mean I didn't—I—I really—"

"Would you call me a fairy godmother?" She smiled. _More like a fairytale princess_. "But someone… a bit supernatural… looking out for you? Yes. I could never do more than that whisper, not even when you wished for me, but I'm glad you heard me. I never stopped loving you, Toby." She looked down. "I always wondered why you never called again, after that first Christmas. I guess I know, now."

"Sarah, I…." Toby felt the absurd need to apologize for something that he had done—or, more properly, _hadn't_ done—in the future, which was to her the past. He hadn't done it— _wouldn't do it?—_ for the perfectly understandable reason that she had been here, with him, but it had still hurt her.

"No." She shook her head. "We—people in general—have enough to apologize for without creating new opportunities by apologizing for the future, or attempting to figure out how to apologize for potential future consequences following time travel. You'll only drive yourself crazy, if you try. I am glad to know, though. And I think…." She broke off, and walked back around to her own side of the table. He missed her warmth, her closeness.

"I think," she started again, and he looked up and met her eyes, startled to see that they sparkled with tears, though she was smiling. "I think some part of you—subconsciously—remembered me. You missed me."

"Sarah, I…" he started, but broke off at the sound of a whimper from the other room, a sound that he had already learned was about five seconds from turning into a full-throated wail.

She turned from him, the moment broken. "I should…."

"Go," he said, quickly. "I'll clean up." She shot him a grateful smile, and a moment later he heard the child's cries fade.

He stood, and rinsed the plates; his old dishwasher couldn't handle leftovers.

He didn't even know what he'd been about to say, not exactly. There was something complicated, here, something about her beautiful eyes and her engaging smile and the way her breath felt on his ear. Something about the way she lit up the room with her happiness, the way she delighted in the ways the world had changed, in all the things that he'd previously taken for granted.

Something about knowing that she'd always loved him, and that in some way, he'd always loved her, too. Something that made him want to dance for joy, or even better, grab her and swing her in circles and listen to that beautiful, musical laugh, see the light in her smiling eyes, hold her close and feel her arms around him. Something in the way she'd hardly left his mind for a moment, ever since the night she'd first knocked on his door.

That wasn't… was that… normal?

Of course he wanted to feel close to her. She was his sister, after all, and he had twenty-five years to make up for. Twenty-five years of birthdays, of Christmases, of snowball fights and late-night movies and all the other things siblings were supposed to do together. Twenty-five years of a big sister who could have been the one he turned to when his mother was too wrapped up in his father to pay more attention to her son.

Twenty-five years that had been stolen by the fucking _Goblin King_. Of course he wanted to make up for lost time.

He wrapped tinfoil over the leftover lasagna and shoved it in the fridge; when he turned around, Sarah was at the sink, pouring out water to mix formula for the baby. She looked up at him and smiled that brilliant smile, and nothing else mattered. They'd find a way to make it work. His parents' objections meant nothing. When she looked at him like that, he had everything he wanted, and he wasn't going to let anyone take it away.

He followed her back into the living room, and sat down next to her on the couch, peeking over her shoulder at the child eating so contentedly. She looked sort of cute, there, and happy, and she was looking out at him with big, curious eyes. Was this what people liked about babies?

Ruth. Ruthie. That's what Sarah had chosen to call her. One tiny foot peeked out of the blankets; he reached out, hesitantly, and touched her tiny big toe. Humans sure did start out small. He shifted closer, leaning in to Sarah, and she looked up at him with another smile. He realized, suddenly, how close their faces were. Her hair smelled faintly of vanilla.

"She's so little," he said, voicing the thoughts he'd been entertaining, and trying to distract himself from the press of her thigh against his, the swell of her breasts beneath her shirt.

"They generally are, at this age," she answered, teasingly.

"I never—I mean—"

"Not used to babies?"

"I've never even held one." Mom and Dad were both only children; no cousins. Most of his friends weren't married yet.

"Do you want to try?"

"Um… okay." He did, because it would please her, and because it was ridiculous to be terrified of such a little person. "Do I need to… um… something about her head?"

Sarah laughed. "She can support her own head, you don't need to worry about that. Here." She turned to face him, and carefully reached out, placing the child in his arms. She whined a little as the motion disturbed her feeding, but calmed immediately as soon as she was steady again. She was warm, and so small. She was still looking at him, and sucking with quiet determination at the bottle.

She wasn't so very frightening, after all.

"Hello, little one," he said softly, looking into her eyes. She blinked, and he smiled at her.

At his smile, her whole face changed. Her eyes crinkled up and her lips parted in a wide, gummy grin. The bottle fell from her mouth, but she didn't seem to notice or care. He stole a glance at Sarah; she was smiling too, looking on proudly.

"I think she likes you," she said. "Do you want me to take her back?"

A tiny person was looking at him like he was the best thing in the world. Sarah was looking at him like he was a dream come true.

"I'm okay." He smiled at Ruthie again, and she made a little burbling noise.

"Alright… see if you can get her to finish, then. And let me know if you get tired of her." She handed him the bottle, and walked over to the corner where they had stashed Ruth's bassinet and other items, and began to tidy up.

He held the baby while she finished eating, and when she was done, Sarah showed him how to burp her, too, holding the baby to his shoulder, leaning against him as she demonstrated. It felt good to have her there, so close. It felt like she was his. Sarah was here, and happy, and Ruthie was quiet and content; dared he hope that yesterday's shadows were already forgotten? All he knew was that he could spend many days and nights like this, with Sarah, with the child. He felt like he had everything he'd never known he wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have debated talking about this, because I don't want to spoil things (so if you're completely anti-spoiler, stop now!), but I don't want to put people off, either. What is going on with Toby is a very real phenomenon called genetic sexual attraction, which happens not infrequently between close family who meet as adults. This is still a Jareth and Sarah story. What Toby is dealing with is important to his character, but it is not something that will be pursued physically. Sarah would never go for it even if I was comfortable writing that.


	8. Bittersweet

_4217 Days (September 4, 2003)_

Jareth had been feeling it for days: that itch, at the edge of his perception, over and on top of the timesense, equally distracting, equally irritating, equally impossible to ignore. Someone, someone _new_ , somewhere, was reading the _book._

There were many stories, Above, of goblins or fairies or evil men who took children; there were even more of child sacrifice, though those were rarely believed. Over the centuries, many had been tied to the Labyrinth; many had wished away children without ever reading that particular tale. Anyone who believed the story stood out among a crowd, little sparks against a black mass of Humanity. He could ignore them, as easily as one ignored a sky full of stars; they were there when needed, and not otherwise.

This was not so with the book. Because it was so close to the truth, because once it had been exactly the truth, someone who read and believed _the book_ blazed like a bonfire on a moonless night, the stars themselves washed out in its radiance.

The knowledge came slowly, as the reader committed to the material. The first day, he knew she was young, but not too young; perhaps the age Sarah had been when she had called him. The perfect age, in many ways: not too old to believe, but not too young to fully understand the story. Dareios, his predecessor, would have found her to be ripe for seduction.

By the second day, he knew she was beautiful, as well, with flowing, red-blond hair, expressive hazel eyes, a smile that lit a room, and a woman's figure, despite her age. Sarah had been lovely, in a girlish way only beginning to show adult promise; this one's promise was already being realized. Nor was she a complete innocent, as Sarah had been. While she had not yet given herself completely, she had tasted and offered pleasure with more than one young man. Ripe, and easy; she would be no shrinking violet.

By the third day, he knew her name was Lisa, and she was American, and that while she had no children—either her own, or those thrust into her care—she had completely embraced the romance of the story, the fantasy of the magical King who wished to save her from her dreary life. _But what no one knew was that the King of the Goblins had fallen in love with the girl._ He could damn the day those words were ever written; Sarah would still have been his.

She had quieted, somewhat, by the end of the third day; perhaps she was asleep. And though she blazed, still, in a corner of his consciousness, the magic had ceased to push new knowledge to him; he could think, again, his mind nearly his own once more.

He took the longer route through the Castle to his tower, over and around the Stairs, changing himself to fit them with the ease of long practice. As a distraction, it proved sadly insufficient; fortunately, a more thorough distraction was likely to be close at hand. He had avoided Sarah, these three days, unwilling to be in company while constantly distracted, and he had missed her, more than he had thought he could in so short a time. Three Short days, yet he ached for her presence, the balm of her love a shield against the cheap desire of a girl who meant nothing.

Yes, they needed him; and yes, he needed these people, this contact, in order to be of use to them, but the mental invasion was still unpleasant. He still resented that his mind was not completely his own. Sarah had been the only person it had not been torture to share with; he had savored her, each time she called, but she had been unusual. She was already beloved.

Sarah's door was open, as he had anticipated, but her sitting room was empty. If she was not in the Labyrinth—and he knew that she was not—she was usually to be found at her desk at this time of day, or, occasionally, sitting at the window. Still… perhaps…. Quietly, he stepped to the bedroom door.

Sarah lay atop her bed, a book open against the headboard; an open notebook and another book lay abandoned next to her. Her hair was damp, and she was completely nude.

The mere _mortal_ in his mind diminished rapidly in importance. He drank her in, creamy skin and sweet curves and toes that point just so, one foot raised from the bed as though in invitation.

Wonder, and joy. _Always._ She was comfortable enough here, in his Castle, in his world, to rest, so, with the doors open in invitation, even requesting his presence. No armor, between them, no barrier; her obvious contentment was as intoxicating as her nudity. _Mine._ This was exactly what he needed.

He watched her for two full minutes, as she read, as she shifted on the bed, the muscles in her thighs and buttocks flexing gently. Watching carefully, he saw that only one hand was visible; the other was bent beneath her body. He smiled; he was certain he knew exactly where that hand was. Stepping quietly, he advanced into the room. He had intended to surprise her, but he had not taken two steps before she turned to him with a welcoming smile.

"Jareth!" She sat up, turning to face, him, and reached out a hand in greeting. Here, and comfortable, and _his_ , sweet breasts, dusky nipples, even and perfect. One dark curl fell over her shoulder, chocolate against pale white.

He closed the distance between them quickly, taking her outstretched hand; when he bent to kiss her, she leaned back, drawing him down. He loved the way she kissed, the way she led with her tongue, like she was hungry for him. He joined her on the bed, leaning over her; she arched up, her breasts brushing his chest through his shirt. She wound one hand into the fabric of his collar, pulling him closer; these days he favored such shirts as much because she liked to hold them as because they suited him. And if her touch did not completely eliminate the nagging pull of the girl Above, it was still wonderful, still what he wanted. In her hands he could turn away, the bonfire diminishing in importance, if not in intensity.

He let her bring him closer as they kissed again, hovering just above her, between her thighs, as her legs twined around his, trapping him. Her hips shifted, seeking him; he resisted, teasing her, delighting in her frustrated moan.

"I missed you," she said, breaking their kiss. He hummed, a noncommittal reply, more interested in his reintroduction to the taste of her skin as he kissed his way down her jawline. He finished the row of kisses with a kiss behind her ear, and she lifted her hips again, wantonly. He pulled back, denying her again, but her angry "Jareth!" trailed off into a sigh far more worthy of his name when he latched onto her earlobe. Laughing, he gave her what she wanted, lowering his hips to hers. She made a satisfied noise and wriggled a bit, stimulating herself against him; while he had not been particularly aroused when he entered the room, he was now. _Mine. She chose me._

"I missed you, as well," he told her, and kissed her gently, briefly.

"Where did you go?" He thought she might be somewhat annoyed, from her tone, but she was also pulling at his clothing, her hands sliding up his back. They had been apart before, but never more than a day; still, he was not sorry for her lustful response, her obvious desire. He had come seeking the balm of her company, but he was quite happy to unite company and touch.

"In a hurry, my dear?" He laughed, again, letting her pull his shirt over his head. "If this is the welcome I receive when I must be gone a few days, perhaps I should find an excuse to leave more often."

She ran her hands up his back, and then around his chest, before tangling one in his hair and pulling him down for another kiss. He dismissed the remainder of his clothing, and she murmured her appreciation as she ran her other hand down his stomach, reaching to fondle him. She stroked, gentle but firm, her fingers so perfect, so right.

"I'd rather you didn't," she answered, a little breathy, tilting her head to let him kiss along her throat. "You also caught me at a good time." She squeezed, again, and he hissed against her pulse, his kiss changing to a bite; she made a delicious _oh!_ noise, her eyes fluttering closed.

"Hmm, I noticed," he answered, nibbling down to her collarbone. "Should I be upset that you were starting without me?" He pulled away as she stroked again, and he captured her freed hand, bringing it up to pin behind her head.

"Well, I didn't know when you'd be ba—aah!" Her admonishment cut off as he pinched her nipple, twisting lightly; she arched into his touch, her soft flesh filling his palm. This was the joy of a lover well-known; he could play her like an instrument, sense her moods and read her reactions far better than he could have with any woman he might have had only once or twice. This would be the four thousand, two hundred, and thirty-fourth time they made love; they had surpassed any of his previous human lovers within the first week, and had exceeded his time with Koliada somewhere around the count of three hundred. And still, she never failed to delight him.

"I apologize; I could not give you word," he answered, looking into her face as his hand continued its attention to her breast. She shivered, but opened her eyes again to look up at him in unspoken question. "I did not know myself." He bent his head again, kissing down her chest and around the soft underside of her breast, knowing how his breath on her nipple would torment her as he passed it by. Every little sound she made whispered _I belong to you_ ; he would never tire of having her in his power.

"Where did you go?" she asked, breathily. Instead of answering, he gave in to her body's plea, licking her nipple and then pulling it into his mouth, while his hand quested south, skimming her hips, the tops of her thighs. "Ohgod, _Jareth_ …." For a moment, she gave in to sensation, and he smirked, feeling quite satisfied that he had distracted her. She was the one who had started this little game and he was not ready for it to end so soon, not when she was so ready and willing, not when he needed her solace and her company and—just— _her_.

But whether she felt his smirk or simply refocused, a moment later her moans turned to a quiet laugh, and he looked up to meet her eyes, amused and fond and desiring.

"You're distracting me on purpose," she said, with a touch of reproof.

He sighed, licking once more at her breast before lifting himself over her so that they were eye to eye—and, incidentally, hip to hip. He saw her breath catch as he came close, as he touched her; he could be inside her in one motion, and he knew she read the desire in his eyes, the fraying edges of his leashed passion. _Mine_. Her eyes mirrored the same desire, behind her questions.

"Sarah," he said, meeting her eyes, one eyebrow raised imperiously, "Do not defy me." With the aid of the hand on her hip, he closed the distance between their bodies, keeping the stern expression on his face with an effort as he sank into her. It did take effort: she was wonderfully warm and welcoming, sweet solace and hot fiery lust and loving comfort.

Her eyes had fluttered closed at his movement, but she opened them almost immediately, a low chuckle in her throat. The contractions of her stomach made her pulse deliciously around him, and his smirk widened, his only concession to the glory of the sensation. And when Sarah's eyes opened, she matched his wicked grin.

"No snake this time, Jareth?" She paused, then leaned up to nip at his lip. "No rope?" She pushed, then, up and to the side, and he let her roll them, enjoying the view as she straddled him, the curve of her breasts, her flat stomach, the way his body disappeared into hers.

He loved her in all moods, loved to please her, loved the way they pleased each other, but this was a rare one, all the more to be treasured. Not wantonly tempting, though tempting she was, but wanton and in control... _mostly_ in control. He twitched, inside her, intentionally, and she let out a hissing breath, her head tilting back, eyes closing again. Her long hair tickled the inside of his thighs, tingling. He twitched again when she inhaled, and she tightened around him, letting the breath out on a moan as she began to move.

She took her pleasure gracefully, slowly, long smooth strokes up and down, eyes closed, head still tilted back. He brought his hands to her thighs, fingers tracing random patterns, tightening and caressing, and after a moment she leaned down for a kiss, moving faster now as he thrust up to meet her.

Drowning in heat, drowning in pleasure, drowning in love. Only fire he needed, only fire he wanted. Think not of the girl Above, of the work coming, of the endless struggle against the dark. Only his Sarah, her movement, her scent, her touch. How had he lived so long, without her?

* * *

"Mmmmm." Sarah let herself down, sprawling across his chest, the aftershocks of her release still gently caressing him. He ran his hands lightly up and down her back, allowing her to recover a little; they would resume soon, perhaps another fifteen seconds. Her body would tell him. She kissed his collarbone, then looked up at him, smiling brightly. "So, where were you?"

For a moment he was stunned, but then he laughed, rolling them to bring her beneath him, and kissed her soundly. "You cannot be so cruel, my Sarah." He pressed closer, and she inhaled sharply, twisting against the increased pressure.

"I can," she challenged, even as her body responded. She tried to draw back, but he held her in place.

"You _shall_ not be so cruel," he corrected, increasing his pace as their eyes met.

"No," she agreed, and wrapped her legs around his waist.

* * *

Three days away seemed far too long, now that they were reunited. He planted tiny kisses along her hairline as she ran her hands up his back, along his shoulders. _My haven_. He cuddled down beside her again, holding her close.

"Will you tell me now?" she asked, after a moment.

She could not understand; there was no possible basis for comparison. Her mind was her own, private, quiet, except for brief moments when her brother reached out; and even then, he was no stranger. And yet he must tell her; this reader was the first since Sarah had returned, but it would happen again.

He outlined, as quickly as possible, the connection between himself and the Kingdom and the _book._ He did his best to keep it impersonal, clinical; unless and until, someday, she could feel something like this, she had no need to know. She listened, quietly, her face out of sight against his shoulder. The hands caressing his back had stilled as he spoke, but her arm around him still held him close. In his mind, the bonfire that was Lisa leapt and sparked; the wretched girl was _dreaming_ of him.

Sarah was quiet, when he finished speaking, so long that he wondered if she might have fallen asleep. Then, she pulled him closer, pressing into his neck, and he felt a hint of dampness against his skin. "Sarah?"

"I'm sorry, I'm being silly." She raised her head to meet his eyes, brushing away the tears that gathered at the corners.

"Will you tell me what concerns you? I assure you I find her presence an imposition; I have no interest in her."

"You thought I'd be jealous?"

"Are you not?"

"I…" she trailed off. "Not the way you're thinking. Could you go to her, if you wished to?" He nodded. "And you have not. I trust you. Why would you think I would be jealous?"

_Because I am. Because I would be. Because you should want me like that. Because I need you more than you need me._

"I do not see why else this would bother you."

"You don't?" She waved her hand in exasperation, rolling off the bed and walking towards her balcony, scooping a dressing gown from the floor as she went. Pale pink silk shifted to a dull black as she pulled it on, and he smiled at this manifestation of her power even as he worried for the mood indicated by her color choice.

"You said you were not jealous in the way that I thought you were. You were, then, jealous for another reason?" He followed her from the bed, Summoning his own loose robe from his room upstairs.

"You are too astute." She turned to look out across the Labyrinth, and he waited.

"I'm jealous of you," she said finally, softly, "because you have that connection."

"You have no such bonds? No bonfire, no pinprick? I thought certainly, after the tragedy of a few years ago—you did not retain any of those connections?" Why had he never asked her this? He had thought she would ask if she found herself in difficulty—her connections should not be as strong as his, except perhaps her brother, which she knew already—but now he realized that she never had. He had taken her silence for complaisance, not thinking that it came instead from ignorance.

"When I can sense Toby, he feels like a magnet. He… draws my attention. But there is nothing like those pinpricks, those stars, that you describe."

"You have a very personal relationship with your brother. You have tried, again, to reach him, have you not?"

"I… when he isn't thinking of me, he isn't there." Her quiet admission startled him, and he watched her carefully. He had been certain she was, or could be, in constant contact; to find she was not was surprising, but it would most likely come in time. She turned, then, to bury her face in his chest, and spoke again, so softly that he could hardly make out the words: "Perhaps I shouldn't have come."

He had wrapped his arms around her instinctively when she approached; at these words his grip loosened, his hands falling to rest on her hips. Why would she say such a thing? Did she…? But no, he had seen no indication that she regretted _him_. Her welcome today had been everything he had dreamed it might be. Still, the quiet flicker of doubt could not be completely extinguished, and he could not suppress a quiet question.

"Sarah, have I…?"

"No, Jareth," she sighed, and she burrowed closer, her arms tight around his body, hands pressing into his back. He pulled her close again in return, resting his cheek on her hair. "It's not your fault."

"What is it, then?" He pushed back far enough to see her face. "What were you working on?"

"Nothing, when you came in." In spite of himself, he laughed, and leaned in to kiss her forehead. "But I got the journal out to work on ideas. Even though I…." She dropped her hand and then brought it up, neatly catching the crystal ball that formed there. He had tried, again and again, to get her to use his own upwards flick of the wrist; conjuring so produced a lighter, airier receptacle, more suitable to carry dreams and ideas. And indeed, as she raised it up to eye-level, he could see that the inside was cloudy and dark, the Dream inside indistinct.

He reached out and took it from her, palming it carefully; it was far heavier than his own manifestations, and also, somehow, far more fragile. Experimentally, he rolled it back and forth across his palm, using the attention required for the motion to help himself focus on removing and adjusting her Summoned magic. When the crystal was as clear as one of his, and nearly as strong, he flicked it to his fingertips and looked inside again.

The Dream was gone.

Sarah had watched his actions quietly, not objecting, but when she saw the result, she let out a moan, hiding her face in her hands.

"I should be _good_ at this!" she burst out. "I studied the mind, for years! Where are those children I helped, I loved? Why can I describe what someone needs, but not manifest it? Even my ideas, that I try to write for you, are not enough—I don't have your creativity and I can't keep up with you." She dropped her eyes, ashamed. Jareth had his own private opinion on the reason for her failure—her Dreams were often intricately detailed, which added a weight of purpose that made them difficult to convey—but he was uncertain if she would accept that criticism in the spirit in which it was intended.

"It will come in time," he said, instead, and he meant it. It was entirely likely that she would never be his equal in that arena—he had a particular talent with Dreams—but anyone could learn to be passable and she had the advantage of incentive and intelligence.

"Jareth, it's been years! Why can't I get it right?"

"It has not been so very long, Sarah." What were four thousand days, when he had already lived nearly a million? "You must learn to see with immortal eyes."

"Immortal eyes?" she said skeptically.

"Your time here seems long to you, for you might have accomplished much in the world Above in the same span of days. But Time has little dominion, here; change comes slowly when it comes at all. Indeed, you have made remarkably fast progress."

" _This_ is fast?"

"We all have particular talents," he reminded her, "though what leads to a particular talent has never been defined. You compare yourself to me and find yourself wanting, but I am your superior in age and experience, _and_ I have a natural talent for mind magic. Comparing yourself to me is like comparing the abilities of a young child to your own accomplishments."

"So I'm a child, then?" She spun from his grasp, her eyes flashing.

"That is _not_ what I said." His tone matched hers, and he grabbed her roughly by the shoulders, tightening his grip until she looked up and met his eyes. Facing the hurt and hopelessness he saw there, he softened. "Sarah…."

"I'm sorry, Jareth," she said quietly. "I know you didn't mean…." She pressed once more into his embrace, kissing where her lips rested, against his chest. "I just felt so… I can't…."

"It is this place," he answered, one hand twining in her hair as he held her close. "As wondrous as it can be, it also wears one down."

She nodded into his chest. "It's easier, when you're near."

"I know." He kissed her hair. In his mind, Lisa was waking up, calling him. And though he felt some relief that Sarah had finally spoken openly of these concerns, he knew also that, at heart, nothing had changed.

* * *


	9. Moving Right Along

_January 22, 2011, 3:21 PM_

"And then you got the second bedroom, back here."

The man had one of those irritating local accents, all long A's and flat vowels, and it put Toby's teeth on edge. He opened the bedroom door and stepped aside so that Sarah could enter first, the baby cuddled, sleeping, to her chest. The landlord stepped back, giving her a wary look; he had seemed almost afraid of Ruthie ever since they came in.

"Be a good place for the little'un, back here. Not a lot of extra space, place like this, but it's as far from the master as you'll get, gives a bit of privacy, all that."

Toby followed after Sarah, who went and opened the closet door; it was narrow, and deep, with risers almost like big steps leading back out of sight.

"I think this closet might go to Narnia." She smiled and stepped inside, peering up into the darkness.

"Great for storage!" the landlord crowed. "All them extra diapers and what have you. I know my wife is always buying them." He had obviously missed the reference.

Toby wandered over to the window, an old affair of slightly warped, single-paned glass that looked out into a depressing alley. It was generously sized, at least: the room would be full of natural light in the afternoons. But other than the size of the windows, he saw little to recommend the room, or the apartment. Parts were charming, perhaps, but he was a practical guy: it also had ancient fixtures, cracking paint, beat wood flooring, thin windows, and walls that probably wanted insulation. This place was old, and would be hell to heat.

But he could see that Sarah loved it.

He turned back and caught the landlord's eye, and the man's lips stretched into a smile; he glanced at Sarah with an appreciative eye, then threw Toby a wink. Toby suddenly wanted to punch him.

"Give us a minute?" he said instead.

"Sure thing, man." He sauntered over to the door, winked at Toby, and disappeared.

Toby joined Sarah at the closet, looking up into the darkness. When she raised her hand, he saw one of the crystals he'd gotten used to seeing sitting in her palm, shining with light. He registered the cracked wood of the walls and the spider webs up near the ceiling, but suddenly none of it seemed to matter, not next to her smile.

"You want it." It wasn't a question.

"I think it's perfect!" Sarah answered. "The bedrooms are apart so we won't bother you, it's near public transit which we both want, and the apartment itself is so charming!"

"You mean the paint is peeling and the plumbing is old, not to mention the wiring? Hardly my definition of charming."

"Don't worry about it. I can fix a lot of this stuff, and older stuff is simpler so it's actually easier. And it has these great hardwood floors, and a real claw foot tub. Are you really going to argue with that?"

He laughed. "Far be it for me to get between a woman and her claw foot tub!" He shook his head, a rueful smile lingering. "We might be able to get some money off the rent for fixing it up. If I can negotiate that, we'll take it."

* * *

Several days later, Toby stood in front of his closet, wondering how exactly it had come to be such a mess. Oh, the work clothes hung well enough, but the boxes on the shelves above exploded with miscellanea, and the floor of the closet was a jumble of shoes, fallen ties, and boxes of video games and outdated game systems. One such box had tipped over, spilling a tangled nest of old cords into a corner. Mixed into the pile were some sort of colored dots, which he had first thought were controller buttons but which, upon further inspection, proved to be Skittles.

Wonderful.

He hadn't really noticed, before, how much his housekeeping had gone downhill since Erin moved to California. The front rooms stayed neat, but in the bedroom, he had apparently shoved things back into the closet more than he really wanted to admit.

It was probably worse under the bed.

And now he had to pack it up.

His opinion of the landlord hadn't improved in the week since their visit. The man was lazy, which probably accounted for how the apartment had gotten into that state in the first place. He hadn't wanted the work of negotiating what repairs would afford what discounts, but Toby had taken the place anyway: instead of arguing, when Toby pointed out the issues, the man had just knocked a flat $100 off the monthly rent. That was good enough, since it wasn't like they'd spend much, if anything, on the repairs.

He had been astonished at the extent to which Sarah's magic was becoming part of their everyday lives. True to what she'd told him originally, she couldn't make food of any kind—even her conjured water tasted limp and empty. But as she rested with him and recovered from her journey, he'd started to see little manifestations of magic in everything she did. She had an easier time repairing existing items than starting from scratch, so she'd managed to make the clothes and baby items from Goodwill look nearly new.

But that wasn't to say the past two weeks been nothing but easy. Seeing his parents had been hell. Mom was determined that he was going to have _someone_ in his life and it wasn't going to be _that woman_ with the baby who had so intruded on her only son's home.

_"Oh, and then Jan, Sandy's mom, you remember Sandy, you sang with her in that play in first grade? Anyway, I ran into her at the supermarket last week and she said Sandy was moving downtown for work. I told her you'd be happy to show her around, you know, help her out, when she comes."_

_Toby remembers Sandy, very well, thank you very much. Way too skinny, no boobs, no hips, a perpetual frown, and an attitude like she was above the world, just gracing it with her presence. Also, blonde. He's always liked brunettes._

_"She'll be here at the start of February, okay? I expect you to be welcoming, we've been friends with her parents for just_ ages _so don't you dare be rude or too busy." Toby nods, and rolls his eyes._

Dad's reaction hadn't been as pronounced, but he, too, had been concerned. They had arrived at the apartment, that night after dinner, to find Sarah watching a movie, Ruthie asleep on her chest. Watching a _Linda Williams_ movie. Toby had barely restrained himself from groaning aloud.

_Sarah pauses the movie and greets them politely, asking about their dinner and their drive. Mom brushes her off, with a frown at the baby, her attention already on the new clothes, food, and new coat she's brought him, as though he couldn't provide for himself. Dad stands in the doorway for a long time, though, watching her, and Toby can see that she's trying hard not to look at him just as closely. She dips her head to give Ruth a kiss, and Toby can see the single tear that drips down into the baby's hair._

_When they leave, Dad takes him aside. "There's something about that girl," he says. "Something odd." Toby says nothing; contradiction would be pointless but he also can't tell the truth. "Be careful with her. Don't let her take advantage." Toby nods, and Dad claps a hand on his shoulder before he closes the door._

At least she'd apologized for the movie, later. It was new, since she'd left—thirteen years ago Linda Williams had been far more famous on stage than on screen—and she'd seen that it was on TV and jumped at the chance; she'd thought it would be over before they got home. He understood, but he also showed her how to use the DVR Record function. Mom didn't need to be thinking of Sarah and Linda Williams in the same thought.

The rest of the week had been much the same. Mom refused to acknowledge Sarah, and took every chance she had to remind him that he had his own life—"you shouldn't be giving it away to some nobody!"—and then attempt to live it for him. Dad, though he also seemed to disapprove, at least greeted her cordially, and Toby had caught him making faces at Ruth the night before they left, Ruth smiling and giggling back at him. And his parting, "she seems nice enough, just don't forget what I told you," seemed positively glowing next to Mom's admonition to "remember what's good for you and don't get led around by a pretty face."

He'd tell his parents about the move once it was done. There was no use beforehand. Maybe he could tell them that Sarah was paying her share? No, Sarah would veto that, since she didn't have any money and she was so fanatically against telling lies.

 _"It's not a matter of won't, Toby," she tells him heatedly. "It's a matter of can't. Or—anyway—_ he _doesn't, I don't know if he can or not but I don't think so, and anyway I don't like to, and for me anyway my tongue gets all twisted up and won't even work if I try to say something blatantly false."_

_"But if I could just—" His parents are coming and simple lies are so much easier than the extraordinary truth._

_"And what if they ask me? No, it has to be this way. Follow my script."_

She was _contributing_ , though, magically. They could say she was pulling her weight, or renting the room, and not talk about the money value. Mom would still hate it, but she would hate Sarah the roommate far less than Sarah the freeloading couch surfer, and she came around often enough that he really didn't want to be at odds on every visit.

He'd gotten used to Ruth, too, he found. She no longer woke him up at all hours, though sometimes he would hear Sarah up with her. Over the last weekend Ruth had been particularly fussy, and he'd stayed up with them, basking in Sarah's presence even when the child was, for the moment, more trial than joy. He could see, too, that Ruth's hesitancy with both of them was fading away. Whatever youthful memory of her mother might remain began to turn to Sarah, and more often than not she greeted his coming, as well, with a smile or a happy burble. His few friends with kids were always complaining about this or that that the kid got up to, but in his experience it hadn't been so bad. He didn't know if it was just Ruthie, if Sarah was just that good of a mom, or if it was the magic, but he didn't care so long as it didn't change.

And there was Sarah.

He had thought, at first, that what he felt for her would change, as he lived with her, as he saw her as his sister, and not as a beautiful woman. But if anything, it was getting worse. It was wrong, and he knew that, to feel this way about a relative, but he couldn't help himself. The curve of her hip as she bent over Ruth's cradle, the sound of her laugh at one of his jokes or at the baby's antics, the smell of her hair when she curled next to him on the couch to watch a movie; all called to him, all required his attention, all demanded his response.

Some days he hated himself. He was wrong, and he was going to hell, and he could hardly bring himself to care. Almost, when it had come time to decide if they would stay together or if Sarah would need to find another home, he had thought that perhaps it would be better if he sent her away. The words had been on the tip of his tongue, but when he opened his mouth, they wouldn't come. Instead he told her that he had given his landlord notice and they would go apartment-hunting the next day.

Other days his feelings didn't seem so wrong, and that was almost more terrifying. She was only his half-sister, after all, and she wasn't even human anymore. Surely that wasn't quite the same as—as that word, that dirty word, that he wasn't quite ready to admit was on his mind. The word the world would use, if they knew.

The word Sarah would use, if she did.

He was her baby brother, in spite of the fact that they now appeared the same age. She loved him, but as a sister loves a brother she is sworn to protect, not as a woman loves a man, or even as a woman loves a friend in a way that could be more if the pieces fell right.

But as much as it was killing him to have her near, it would be worse, far worse, if she turned from him, if she left him in horror or disgust. So he would get a new apartment, and move in with her permanently, and be to her what he could, and refuse to blame himself for dreaming of her at night.

* * *

The candy extricated—Skittles never did go bad—and the cords jammed back into the box they'd fallen from, Toby wandered out of the bedroom, in search of packing tape to close the whole thing up tight. The box was ready to fall apart, but it didn't need to go far, and would probably survive this move. Sarah had been sitting with Ruth when he came home, but she'd been packing books earlier; she should know where it was.

But Ruth was alone in the living room. Sarah was missing, but he could see the bathroom door was closed; she must be there. He approached to knock and ask after the tape, then paused.

Someone was crying, beyond the closed door. _Sarah_ was crying. He could hear her, though she tried to suppress it: little gasps and sobs, harsh inhale and broken exhale. Sarah was crying, and he did not know why.

"Sarah?" He knocked at the door, gently, then, as she failed to answer, firmly. "Sarah!"

He heard her breath catch, and then a moment of silence, and a deep breath.

"Just a minute, Tobes," she said finally, and he smiled in spite of his concern—she hadn't used that nickname with him, yet. He liked that every day they grew closer, every day she seemed more at ease with him and with their life. He heard the sink turn on, and the swift _swish_ of tissues leaving their box, and Sarah's quiet sniffles.

"Will you tell me what's wrong?" He had tried to be patient, to wait till she came out, but he could not help his concern.

Silence again, but this time it sounded waiting, like she was considering his request.

"I guess. If you want to know."

"Of course I do."

The pause was shorter, this time.

"Give me a minute to clean up."

"I'll be in the kitchen. You want some tea?"

"Please."

He filled a few mugs and shoved them in the microwave, then went out to the living room to check on Ruthie. They had found one of those mats with toys that arched overhead for cheap, yesterday at a yard sale; Sarah had fixed its broken leg easily. Ruth smiled when she saw him, and he crouched down beside her, reaching past the toys to tickle her belly. She curled her legs up, in response, and laughed. When he began to move away, she made a grab for his hand, and he let her close her little fist around his finger and hold on until the microwave beeped.

He pulled the mugs from the microwave and dunked in tea bags. As he set them on the table and went for the sugar, he heard Sarah emerge and cross the living room. She paused, near where Ruth lay, and stood for a moment, then inhaled sharply once more and moved to join him in the kitchen. When she rounded the corner and approached the table he could see fresh tears in her eyes.

"Thanks," she said, as he pushed the tea at her. She sat down slowly and produced a tissue, wiping her eyes once more before raising the mug. He watched her carefully as she sipped, and smiled when the ghost of a smile crossed her lips: he'd gotten it right. She liked her tea dark, almost overbrewed, with just a touch of sugar.

"Are you alright?"

She bit her lip, looking down into her cup for a long moment.

"I guess." She sniffed, and balled up the tissue in her hand; when her hand opened again, it was empty. "I'll be okay. It was stupid to get my hopes up, anyway."

"Your hopes up?" He was completely baffled, now. "Hopes for what?"

"I…" she looked away. "I hoped—there was a chance—that I was pregnant. I'm not."

"Pregnant? But you said you—and that you couldn't—and you were ex-lovers anyway!" It was ridiculous to be this angry, and he knew that, but it hurt anyway. How much was she asking him to take on? Ruthie was… Ruthie was great, but if she had a kid now… he had complicated his life enough, as it was.

And he didn't want anything else around to remind her of the Fucking Goblin King.

"I… it wasn't likely. But there was a chance. The last night, we…."

Oh. "So what, you're not together but you still have to get in a goodbye fuck before you poof off and leave him to chase you?" What kind of sick game was she playing, anyway?

But she'd flinched at the phrase _goodbye fuck_ , and now he felt like the world's biggest tool.

"Sarah…." He reached for her hand, where it lay on the table, but she drew it back.

"Don't," she said, tears standing in her eyes again. "Just don't."

"I shouldn't have—"

"No, you shouldn't have." Those first few words were angry, but then she stopped herself, and sighed.

"But I shouldn't have, either. You're right, it wouldn't have been fair to get you to go to all this trouble and then spring that on you, if it had been true. I should have mentioned the possibility earlier." She pressed her thumbs into the corners of her eyes, wiping away moisture as they drew away. Their eyes met, and she gave him a tremulous smile.

In the living room, he could hear Ruthie fussing; it would be bedtime soon, but she almost never settled down without a cuddle.

He stood, and reached for her, and she let him pull her up into his arms and hold her; carefully, he kept them loose, a brotherly tension, though he ached to crush her closer. She wrapped her arms around him in return, and rested her forehead briefly against his shoulder before she pulled back and away. He let her go.

"Let's get her settled," she said, her voice more normal now. "Once she's asleep, can we talk a bit? There's something I should tell you that might help you understand."

"Sure," he answered, now burning with curiosity. "Can… can you give me a hint?"

She bit her lip, considering, and then nodded.

"You probably know that you're not the only reason I'm here, though I did want to see you. There's more to it than that." He nodded; she'd made that clear from the start and he had mostly stopped resenting it. "I'll tell you the whole story, eventually, I promise, but as a first step… I need to tell you about my son."


	10. So Much Like Fear

_5232 Days (February 23, 2006)_

One becomes, very quickly, unused to solitude.

Jareth perched in the window to Sarah's suite; staring through both glass and the veil of magic that separated them. Inside, Sarah sat with the boy—with Ciro—in her lap, their attention fixed on the book held open before them.

He watched as Sarah turned the page, slowly, slowly, the lock of hair pushed behind her ear spilling gently, slowly, forward as she moved. Today was extremely Long—more than sixty Aboveground hours—and so he passed some three seconds, on the windowsill, for each one that passed in Sarah's rooms.

He had been watching for nearly an hour before they finished the book. As Sarah moved to put it down, Ciro looked up and caught sight of him. Jareth was careful to hold very still; the time difference was enough that he feared frightening the child if he moved too quickly. Ciro spoke, and pointed towards the window; at his indication, Sarah looked up, smiling widely.

She leaned down to the boy and spoke in his ear; he hopped nimbly off her lap and ran towards Jareth, climbing onto the bench beneath the windowsill so that he could see, clearly, out the window. Sarah, gracefully, rose and followed, and Jareth's eyes could no longer watch the child; he was lost, utterly, in the slow-motion sway of her hips under her long skirt.

Sarah rested a hand on Ciro's head, smoothing his hair, and he looked up at her and spoke, gesturing at Jareth. How he wished he could hear them! But sound was too strange, translated across the boundary of time, and so, for peace of mind, they had worked a simple spell of silence into the barrier as well.

Ciro spoke again, and Sarah sat on the bench at his side, touching his cheek as she replied. Her manner with him had always been easy; Jareth had been correct to believe that she would be a good mother. After one more brief exchange, Ciro waved cheerily at Jareth, then hopped down from the bench and ran for the bedroom.

Sarah watched him go, then leaned closer to the window, and met Jareth's eyes, raising one hand to rest on the barrier that divided them. He leaned in as well, touching his feathered head to magic wall, feeling the current that ran through it, like a flow of water across his feathers.

Their eyes held for a long moment, and Sarah smiled sadly. Owl eyes had not the expression of a man's, but he did his best to pour his longing for her into his gaze. Then, at some unheard cue, Sarah broke their communion to look briefly towards the bedroom. She met his eyes again, and mouthed, "I love you," then let her hand fall, and walked away.

* * *

He had been correct: once they moved away from a focus on dream magic and began to explore Sarah's natural talents, she progressed rapidly. She picked up Transportation almost as quickly as she had managed the Stairs, and had also shown some talent for changing physical objects: she could easily repair broken items—the goblins provided sufficient pieces for practice—and even the transmutation of an item from one form to another.

The only physical magic at which she did not excel was the production of edible items. Sarah, eventually resigned to the fact, hypothesized that it was part and parcel of her Aboveground difficulty with biochemistry, which had also contributed to her decision to pursue psychology rather than psychiatry. She brushed off his assurances that she would improve with practice—it had not been an easy skill for Jareth himself to master, either—and he noted, not for the first time, that if she got it in her head that she was not capable of something, it took a great deal of pressure, reassurance, or incentive to get her to move past her difficulty and try again.

She had taken easily to time magic as well, he had been pleased to discover. It was sensible, perhaps: an artifact of her origins in a time-based system and her natural sense of order. He taught her to recognize the passage of time as he did, though she seemed more easily able to release the distraction of continuously counting, and engage the ability only when required, a difference that he envied. She also lacked his connection to Time Aboveground, but that was to be expected: it was a consequence of his position, not a natural inclination. Eventually she had asked him why he used minutes and seconds and hours when they were arbitrary times in the Labyrinth, not based on any natural cycle, and he admitted that yes, it was arbitrary, but it was the arbitrary system that both of them had been raised in, and thus made as much sense as any other.

But despite Sarah's improved accomplishments, Jareth could not say that he was content. He had hoped that discovering her natural talents would lessen the magical obsession that had been at least some part of Sarah's melancholy, but the effect had been quite the reverse. In Sarah's view, that would could be mastered _must_ be mastered immediately; frequently, she worked sunrise to sundown, and even late into the night.

He would seek her out, and she would join him, but even then, he would catch a faraway look in her eyes; her mind departed, though her body was with him, and he found himself seeking her company less often. Neither did she now visit the friends she had met in the Labyrinth. He had encountered that _dwarf_ earlier, as he surveyed his boundaries, and had been accused of "keepin' her all to yerself;" he had taken great pleasure in informing the creature—quite honestly, as it well knew—that he did not control Sarah's schedule and if she had neglected him, that was her own affair.

All in all he had been remarkably polite. When the creature's spluttering ceased to amuse, he had simply Transported away. The fact that this was the dwarf's least favorite dismissal could hardly be blamed upon Jareth.

He Dreamed less, these recent days, consumed first with helping Sarah, and then with seeking her: inspiration was lacking. But he was not concerned: he had learned, well enough, over all his years, that the one truth of immortality was that the only constant was change. Inspiration would return, and the world would not suffer for a few years' lighter work.

It bothered him far more that Sarah had yet to notice.

He found her in the library, but she was not reading. Instead, she was focused intently on an empty shelf, channeling magic through her fingers as she restored its polish and straightened the warped wood. The books which had filled the shelf were stacked nearby; they were histories, mostly, the stories of small civilizations who had been beloved of his kind.

It was obvious that she neither heard nor sensed him: her concentration never wavered, nor did she acknowledge his presence even with a glance. No: she was completely consumed by the magic, her body tense and trembling with the force of the power. He could see that she still needed to touch each small area: she could not yet alter large areas with a single touch. As he watched, she paused, pressing one finger to the middle of the shelf and concentrating: the area around her finger shifted and straightened, a wider diameter than had previously been affected, but when she moved it slightly, her knees buckled, and she collapsed against the shelf.

He longed to catch her, to support her, but he had learned, by now, that to so mortify her pride would only make her angry.

"Sarah," he said, instead, and tried to smile, as though he had not seen.

"Don't pretend with me, Jareth." He had expected her to snap at him, but she only sounded tired. "You've been standing there for at least ten minutes." _Ten minutes, thirty-two seconds._ He had been wrong about her perception.

"You are improving, but—"

"Don't say it." It was true; this was an old argument. "I can only go so fast, I can only do so much, I push too much, I am only human, I can't expect that I—"

"Sarah!" Though her statement had started calm, her alarm escalated with each phrase, until, by the end, she was nearly yelling. This time he did not hold back: he took two quick strides to close the distance between them, and grasped her by the shoulders, tightening his grip until she looked up to meet his eyes.

He could say what he was thinking, but it would be pointless to rehearse the same arguments, to hear her same answers. She worked too hard, she expected too much, the time was too short. Only once had he ventured another argument: he missed her. That one, and that one alone, she had called manipulative and cruel. She claimed that she was only trying to be what he needed; she did not hear when he told her that she already was.

And all these things and more had already been spoken. He could be angry, but anger required an energy that this repetition had stolen. After three hundred days of bitter arguments, they had come to an agreement: if neither could say anything new in one hundred and twenty seconds—two minutes—then the argument would not continue; they would find another subject, or part and return to each other another day.

"Cannot I tempt you away?" He gave her a small smile, and released her shoulder so that he was free to cup her cheek.

"I suppose." She looked back at the bookshelf. "This doesn't really need to be done today." He refrained from saying that very little, here, was so urgent that it could not wait. "Could you give me a lesson in your shapeshifting? I can turn things into other things, it would make sense to be able to do it to myself as well."

He frowned. "Shapeshifting is a talent of my race, not a magical skill."

"So?" She shrugged. "I'm getting more like you anyway." She gestured towards her face, to the dark highlights that had begun to form across her eyelids as she discovered her true magical talents. "And if I can't do it that way, then there might be magic that can—"

"No," he interrupted sternly.

"What? Jareth, I—"

"You cannot change by magic alone." He was angry with her for suggesting it, angry that all she wanted was more of magic, but he forced himself to settle for a lecturing tone, forcing himself to calm; for all her experimentation, she did not know the rules. "You would be unable to regain yourself. A body adapted to natural shifting is required to permit an animal body to continue to process thoughts in the same manner as the natural shape. You are changing, but it is doubtful that such change is yet included." His voice softened. "And Sarah—I would not risk you."

Slowly, she nodded. "Well then, maybe you could show me—"

"No," he cut her off again, gently this time. "No more magic for you. Not today." She looked ready to argue again, and he raised a hand to stop her. "There are only a few more hours in the day, you need at least a short rest, and I—" He stopped. He had come close to saying it again: _I miss you_.

"Where do you get off telling me when enough is enough?" she burst out, angry at what he had not quite let slip. "You rely on it for everything! To get around, to get dressed, hell, to get me off!" He blinked at that; certainly he used expanded touch in their bedroom play, but it was hardly _required_. But she was not yet finished. "And then you're just going to come and say that enough is enough? That you know better than me what I'm capable of? Or maybe you just miss sweet innocent little Sarah, who would have worshipped at your feet."

There was nothing to say to that; she would not believe him if he denied it, though her accusation was as painful as it was unfounded. Had he not told her that he wanted nothing with that old dream, not when she was so much more? He loosened his hold and stepped back from her, not quite letting go, but not restraining her either.

"I'm sorry," she said, looking down and then back to his face. "That was… I shouldn't have said that. Jareth…." She stepped closer, putting a hand to his cheek, her thumb caressing gently.

"Do you apologize because what you say is untrue, or because you believe it but believe also that you should have kept such belief to yourself?"

She blinked. "The first one."

"You know that I am not trying to control you." _Not in the manner that you meant. Not beyond your will. Yet you would do better to heed me._ Sarah sighed, looking thoughtful, then, suddenly, her lips twisted up in a playful, predatory grin.

"You know what? Fine. No magic for me? Then none for you either," she challenged. "That's the deal." She crossed her arms and waited, eyebrow cocked.

"No magic?" He had anticipated spending time in the Labyrinth, perhaps returning to the water sprites' garden, but at this time of day that would require Transportation. Still, there was always…. "As you wish, my Sarah… I do not believe I need magic to please you." He pulled her close again, leaning in to whisper in her ear.

"No…" she leaned in too, breasts pressed to his chest, her lips tickling against his jaw, "but you need magic to get out of those pants." She laughed. "For that matter, you'd need magic to get me out of mine."

Clothing could be cut as well as Vanished, but a blade would also need to be conjured; weapons were generally not permitted in the Castle, for the safety of his subjects. Both sets of clothing were too thick to be torn. Companionship, then, not intercourse… and if she truly insisted that magic be eschewed completely, they could not even return to their quarters: it would require making use of the magic of the Stairs. He took that moment to truly close off his normal connection to the Castle, which maintained the cleaning and provisioning spells as well as providing lighting. It was an odd sensation: the parts of his mind normally concerned with such matters tingled and pulsed, like a limb deprived of bloodflow. Sarah looked about curiously as the lights in the library flickered out, but said nothing.

"Come." He twined his fingers with her and turned, pulling her towards the door.

"Where are we going?"

"You shall see."

* * *

The music room was dusty with disuse: he had not bothered to maintain the enchantment for cleanliness while Sarah was uninterested. Still, the room had been cleaned since Sarah's return, so it was the dust of years, not of centuries. While he could Conjure a passable instrument, and did so frequently when musical inspiration struck, he preferred to have one made by an expert: he could not match the perfection of, say, a Stradivarius violin. Sarah might be able to, if she put her mind to it and learned the related physics.

"What are we doing here?" she asked, releasing his hand to approach one of the walls, hung with instruments.

"Long ago, you said you would like to learn, someday. I thought we might make a beginning."

She turned in place, eyes searching the room. He took a moment to put himself in her place. He had rarely thought of it, but perhaps the collection was impressive: he had kept only the most promising of instruments from every culture he encountered, and then only if he could find one that was well-made. And, as friends and acquaintances lost interest in their own collections, before departing, he brought those in as well; the room was filled with instruments, but it held only his favorites. Others were stored elsewhere in the Castle. High on the wall, out of practical reach, deep windows pierced the walls, filling the room with bright sunshine, another reason he had chosen this room in a magicless challenge.

Sarah approached a section of the wall devoted to a display of drums, running her fingers across an Irish _bodhrán_ , tapping lightly, listening to the pitch change with a curious, thoughtful frown. The fingers of her other hand rested on the rim of the similar, but larger, Persian _daf_ , stroking lightly across the smooth wood of the frame.

He watched her, happy to see her distracted from her obsessive work, and smiled when she turned back to him.

"So… where do we start?" she asked, leaving the wall to approach him.

"I thought you would do best to dictate that," he answered. "Where would you like to begin?"

"I don't really know. There are… a lot of choices."

"Have you had any instruction?"

She shrugged. "Mom made me take piano lessons, when I was little. Only maybe six months or so. She had this dream about a mother-daughter act. She lost interest after…." She trailed off, and he could almost see her putting the pieces together. "After she wished me away." She shook her head, slightly, shutting out the memory of her mother's abandonment. "I guess it doesn't matter."

"The pianoforte is an excellent place to start," he said. "The keyboard is a natural way to learn theory. Come." He beckoned her over to the corner of the room that housed the instrument, as well as an older, smaller harpsichord and other older keyboard instruments. Dust slid from the polished oak frame as he raised the lid; at least the keys were clean, protected by their cover. The matching bench was small, and he was not permitted to use magic to expand it. Instead, he pushed himself over to one edge, patting the bench to encourage her to sit next to him. She did not, however, instead leaning against the case near the upper register

"It looks… different," she said, frowning at the keys. "Like there's something out of place." She pointed to a key. "That's middle C?"

"It is the C closest to the middle of the keyboard," he replied. "This was a term used by your teacher?"

"You don't know?"

"This instrument is relatively new," he replied, "though the keyboard system is familiar to me because of its similarity to the pipe organ, which is far older. I had formal lessons on the organ, but what I know of the piano I learned by observation, intuition, and plain guesswork."

"Observation?"

"I did not create this piano, Sarah."

"You got it—"

"Above, yes." He had acquired this piano in 1840, the last time he had been able to find his way Above without a Wish until Sarah called him. "From a man named Camille Pleyel, in Paris."

"You… bought it?" She frowned.

"In a manner of speaking, yes." The conversation had taken an unexpected turn, but he did not mind. Sarah looked thoughtful, and focused upon him, and that was all that was required.

"You're playing that game again," she said, rolling her eyes. "How _do_ you get things Aboveground? I'm assuming you don't steal them, but I know I didn't see you pay for the meal, the first time you took me out. Convincing someone that you paid is just the same as stealing, you know."

He laughed, ignoring her minor insult. "Once upon a time Men were glad to gratify their gods. But I did no such thing. I am surprised you never asked me before, Sarah."

"So? Do you just conjure money?"

"I suppose I could, but that would require keeping up with the intricacies of currency in every country in the world; I could do so, if I desired, but frankly it does not hold my interest. No, I suppose you would call it a barter system."

"You're not walking around telling everyone about magic."

"No. In the case of the restaurant owner, I _convinced_ him—magically—that he desired to provide a free meal for myself and a guest. I returned the following day and repaired every appliance in his kitchen, returning them to new. Without his knowledge, of course, but he should not notice; he will only see how exceptionally fortunate he has been, that nothing breaks down."

Sarah blinked at him. "And the cab driver?"

"Burned no fuel while we rode with him, and did not lack for custom all evening." Automobiles were one new fascination he had taken the time to learn during that week Above. Following Sarah the entire time, as part of him had wished to do, would only have frightened her.

She was silent, for a long time, staring down into the open piano. He ran his fingers over the keys, ivory and ebony warming under his touch. He remembered the first time he had seen this instrument, the music pouring forth from the fingers of a talented young composer and performer. What could he play for her? What would she know? She had appreciated the concert they attended; he remembered her joy in _Peter and the Wolf_ , even if he had been too overcome by _Peer Gynt_ to observe much of her reaction there.

What was he feeling? What did he _want_? He could play the music he had written for her ballroom dream, but it seemed far too much a plea for attention. No: if he wished to call attention to the instrument, then he must choose something designed to showcase its talents. Perhaps something which he could even encourage Sarah to learn. Something she might enjoy.

And then he knew. The song was not cheerful, not peaceful, but he felt neither of those things in this moment. He felt… a little bit alone, even with her here.

Sarah glanced at him when he began to play, but said nothing. The piece began softly, a slow haunting melody and simple, repeated chords, the work of pedals and a very light touch required to keep it from racing out of control. Timesense warred with _rubato_ expression and he harkened back to the memory of hearing this piece from its composer's hands, closing his eyes to remember that exquisite, emotive performance, the candlelit salon hushed with awe.

The melody curled around and returned, rose, fell, returned again, the tension growing, the crescendo imminent. He leaned in, unconsciously, fingers finding the keys unerringly, though it had been decades since he played. And then that burst: not faster, no, not faster, but louder, yes, louder, the melody soaring, loosed from its former slavery, briefly transcendent—and return, and circle, and softly, softly close.

When even he could no longer hear the faint ringing of the last chord, he opened his eyes. Sarah stared back at him, spellbound, her lips parted. He wanted to stand, to kiss her, but to do so would break the tableau, ruin the moment. But she acted for him: she stepped closer, holding his gaze, her hand rising to cup his cheek and her eyes falling shut as her head bent to brush her lips gently with his.

"Beautiful," she breathed, against his mouth, and opened her eyes again, meeting his with so little distance to separate them. "Why haven't you played for me before?"

"You never asked."

"I didn't know what I was missing." She leaned into him, pressing her forehead to his, and swallowed, then released him, and moved away. He let her go, watching her from his place on the bench.

"Sarah?"

"You don't tell anyone about magic." He shook his head in confirmation, but it had been a statement, not a question. "Why not?"

Why not? Could not she see? "Sarah, say there is a man who comes to town, who claims he can work miracles, and then does. Over and over again, until even skeptics believe. What happens to him?"

Her face fell. "Everybody wants a piece."

"Yes. He becomes only a tool for their desires. But what happens when his power is not limitless?"

"I thought you could do almost anything! When you gave me that crystal, you said that you 'cannot bring back the dead' but could do most else, at least of things that were 'personal to me.' So what are the limits?" She paced back and forth as she spoke, spinning to glare at him with her last question.

"I do not mean limits of ability; while that does enter into the calculation, I am old enough and strong enough to render it moot. No, except for death, there is little I could not accomplish which stands in the realm of one man's personal desires. No: the problem is that the power itself is not limitless, not Above."

"You never seemed to have a problem."

"Ambient magic is everywhere, though there is more in some locations than others. A magic-user also accumulates magic in their person, which supplements ambient magic in areas where it is lacking. But it is a resource, finite as any other. Do you see?"

"You have to pick and choose." She sighed.

"How do you answer one man's dream, and not another's? Where do you stop? What problem is too small to fix with magic? What is too large to attempt? And what do you do when you say you cannot, and they do not believe?"

Painful memory intruded, and he could see that she remembered as well.

_"Send me back, right now, and I'll forgive you for this, and we can go back to letters for a while, if you still want to." Her eyes are so beautiful, even angry; he wants her passion. But just moments ago he believed he had it all, that she wanted this as much as he did, and yet that was false. He takes a sharp breath, and guards his heart against showing her too much._

_"Sarah. Look at me, Sarah." He cannot resist: he must touch her, stroke the set line of her jaw, coax her into complete attention, no sullenness. "I cannot send you back."_

_He hates the tears standing in her eyes, and blesses that they might hide that he wants to shake her, or maybe cry himself. "Can't, or won't?"_

_"I cannot." Does she not know? Has she no understanding of who he is?_

_"Liar. You can just claim that you can't, but you want me here, so here I stay." The accusation hurts like a thrust to the heart: she trusts him not at all._

"Jareth." Suddenly she was standing right in front of him, her hands cupping his face. He rose, and wrapped his arms around her waist. She reached up and kissed him, briefly, then settled back in his embrace, biting her lip in thought. "That's… you've been trying to tell me that for a while now, haven't you. That magic isn't the solution to everything."

That was not the whole of it, so he said nothing, only met her eyes, his fingers drawing tiny, random patterns across her lower back. After a moment, she shook her head and looked away.

"I don't know, Jareth. I see what you're trying to say, but I still feel like I have to try…." She leaned in, resting against his chest. "I'll think about it."

"Thank you." He was about to suggest that they resume the music, that he teach her, perhaps the melody of the piece he had played, but as he opened his mouth to speak, a jolt of power slammed into him, unexpected and powerful, at the same time that words thundered in his head: _"I would that Minos take you and keep you, as tribute to the Labyrinth!"_

"What was that?" Sarah's voice sounded very far away. "Jareth?"

"A child." He shook his head once, swiftly, reasserting his control of the Labyrinth and the Castle, welcoming back the familiar flow of magic. "I must away. Go to the Throne Room. And Sarah—I hope you remember your Greek!"

* * *

Very early in the morning, Jareth opened the King's Door, and, gently but firmly, pushed past the barrier that blocked it, into her bedroom. The magic resisted at first, then, under increased pressure, shuddered and burst like a bubble of soap. It would be rebuilt in a few days' time, but the next several days would approach Aboveground lengths, and Jareth was determined to spend that time enjoying the company of Sarah and the boy she had adopted.

He had not slept at all, in anticipation of this moment. He entered her room quietly, delighted to find her alone in the bed: he blessed again his foresight in providing an adjoining room for Ciro. It had been different, when he was smaller, but he was now, Sarah told him, approximately six years old; he was more than old enough to sleep on his own.

Faint moonlight lit the room, softening its lines, and the curve of Sarah's cheek, her eyelashes an inky, contrasting shadow. His beauty; his. Today had been exhausting; most of the burden of their spell of time fell on his shoulders, and there had been the additional burden of the Long day, and long night. But it was worth it, to be here for her now.

When he had seduced her back Underground, he had thought that she would submit to him, that she would be his when needed and not otherwise, that she would fill unoccupied time. Instead, all he had once promised had come true: as long as she loved him, he would always be her slave.

And in his own way, too, he loved the boy.

The child had been with them some four hundred days, of which Jareth had spent thirty-four in his company. For the first two days, he had attempted to remain inside the barrier, keeping Time constant, but the length of the third such day had proved too great a strain: he collapsed, and the barrier snapped. When he awoke, almost a day later, Sarah had been nearly frantic, both at his state and at the amount of magic that had been allowed to influence the boy. Sharing her concern and unwilling to see such an event repeat, they had devised the current plan, which balanced Time and Magic by anchoring each with one of them: Sarah with Time, her natural element, and Jareth with Magic.

And though the barrier separated them, finding a way to care for Ciro had brought them back together. No longer was she distant or distracted: when he visited them, she was welcoming and loving. Gone were the petty arguments, the little injuries that had begun to tear at the edges of their happiness. Loving the child smoothed away the roughness, and the time apart let them cherish what they had together. And Sarah was happier in her new calling as a mother. Her magical obsession was finished, faded to healthy interest that he would nurture in due time.

"Jareth?" Sarah blinked, sleepily, her eyes slitting open to focus on him standing in the doorway. "It's early."

"It is very late, actually," he replied, approaching to sit next to her on the bed. She reached out and pulled at his hand, and he let her guide him down to lie beside her, his head on her pillow. He leaned in to kiss her forehead, and she smiled and closed her eyes.

"I missed you," she sighed. "Very late?"

"The new day is not yet begun."

That got her attention. "Jareth!" She pushed up on one arm, looking down at him as she blinked away sleep. "Yesterday was Long, wasn't it?"

"A few extra hours of sleep will do him no harm." He reached a hand to stroke her cheek. "And it gives us some time." He started to pull her down for a kiss, but surprised himself with a yawn.

She smiled. "And you were up all night?"

"Waiting until I judged it safe." The dark of the room worked with the late hour and the comfort of her presence; he could feel his weariness in his very bones.

"Come here." She raised the bedcovers in invitation. He waved the curtains closed at the window, shutting out the bright moonlight, then moved beneath and spooned behind her, one arm under her head as the other wrapped her waist to hold her close. He buried his face in the hair at the back of her neck, kissing her gently and inhaling her scent.

"Mmmm." Sarah shifted slightly, stretching, before settling back into his arms. Her bottom pushed back into his pelvis, and sleepiness began to give way to hunger. The hand at her waist shifted, tracing across her belly. "I'll say again: I missed you."

"It was your idea," he reminded her, bringing his hand up to brush the underside of her breast; he loved the firmness of her flesh beneath the soft silk nightgown she wore. She stiffened, and he pulled her closer, kissing across her shoulder. "Relax, love. I do not regret it. I chose it too. I was only teasing."

She remained silent, but he could feel her relaxing into his touch once more; most likely, she was thinking. He stroked her gently, continuing his kisses.

"Do you think it's working?" she asked, finally. Her hand reached back to stroke his hip and he growled his approval into her back, grinding his growing erection against her backside and making her giggle. "I thought you were tired?"

"Not too tired, not for you." She turned her face for a brief, hungry kiss; his hands moved down, pushing up the hem of her short nightdress to stroke the flesh beneath. "I need you, my Sarah."

Her top leg lifted slightly, and he put a hand to her belly, keeping her steady as he entered her. She made a sound that seemed equal parts hum of contentment and moan of anticipation, and he pulled her close to his chest, reveling in her warmth.

Immediate need for connection satisfied, Jareth's mind returned to her previous question. "It has been far longer than I expected this to work. I believe Ciro will do well." He began thrusting gently, slowly, a sleepy, sweet lovemaking that would prolong their intimacy.

"What?" She turned her head to look at him, eyes cloudy with desire.

"Ciro. I believe he will do well."

"Mmmm." Then she stiffened, pulling away. "Ciro! The door is open!"

He pulled her back, maintaining their connection. "Hush. He is asleep. Stay quiet, that he might remain so; I have not finished with you yet!" She giggled and relaxed, stifling her moan into her pillow as he rolled her, thrusting deeper.

There was lust in this embrace, and loneliness, but there was safety too: the satisfaction of some primal need to _claim_ , to own. Sarah belonged to him, as much as he belonged to her. She was his to cherish, his to protect, and he wrapped his body around hers, clasping her tight, close, safe.

The urge came, now, to thrust harder, faster, to claim Sarah's satisfaction and demand his own, but as he moved to allow himself to do so, he caught sight of a pair of eyes, standing in the doorway.

"Jareth?" Sarah's voice was husky with need and the late hour, and when he stilled, she pushed back at him impatiently. "Why—"

"Ciro," he answered softly, dropping his head to rest in the crook of her neck.

"Mama?" The boy's voice was soft with sleep. With the curtains closed, the room was very dark, and the boy stood in the open doorway that led to the sitting room, framed by faint starlight from that room’s window. "I woke up and it was dark."

Sarah cleared her throat and pushed away; Jareth let her go, rolling onto his back and Summoning a pair of loose pants. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, willing his erection to subside. Hopefully they could coax him back to sleep quickly.

"I know it's dark, baby," Sarah was saying, beckoning to the child from the edge of the bed. "But you can go back to sleep, right? Darkness is sleepy time."

He shook his head. "Not tired." As he stepped forward, his eyes widened, and Jareth knew that rest was over. "Daddy!" He ran the rest of the way across the room, jumping and throwing himself on the bed. Sarah caught him, arresting his momentum, but he started squirming immediately, and Jareth reached for him. In Jareth's arms, the boy quieted.

"Hello, little man."

"Is it tomorrow?" Ciro frowned thoughtfully. "Mama said you are coming tomorrow. But it can't be tomorrow if it's dark out."

"It is still today," he answered, smiling. "I was impatient for your company, so I came early."

"Oh." The frown persisted, and Jareth looked up into Sarah's eyes. She smiled back, and moved closer, putting an arm around Ciro as Jareth wrapped an arm around her. "What is 'impatient for your company?'" He spoke slowly, emphasizing the unfamiliar words.

Sarah laughed. "It means he wanted to see us, Little Wind."

"If you want to see us, you should just not go 'way." Ciro looked up at Jareth mournfully, and he swallowed, hard, wishing that yes, things could be different, that he could be more than a brief presence in the life of this child.

"We talked about that, honey," Sarah intervened, drawing the boy's attention. "Do you remember what we said?"

"I have to eat my vegetables." In spite of himself, Jareth laughed, and Sarah smiled.

"Do you remember the rest?"

"I don't wanna eat my vegetables, but I have to. Daddy doesn't wanna go 'way, but _he_ has to."

"Do you remember why?"

"So I can grow up big and strong!" Suddenly excited, he sprang to his feet, bouncing and then falling into the space between them. He looked down at himself, suddenly thoughtful again. "I'm not big and strong already?"

"You are my big strong boy," Sarah said, "but you need to be a big strong man."

"Like Daddy?"

"Like Daddy." Behind Ciro's head, Jareth yawned again; Sarah met his eyes and they shared a sympathetic smile. "But Daddy is very tired, right now… what do you say you and I go look at the stars?"

"Sarah—" Jareth felt the need to intervene. She was exhausted as well; she needed this just as much as he did. And if the boy did not sleep now, he might not adjust properly. Waking Ciro had figured in none of his expectations.

"Don't wanna look at stars," Ciro said stubbornly. "Wanna stay with Daddy."

"Even if Daddy has to sleep?"

The little boy blinked, and then yawned. "I can sleep too."

"Come here, Little Wind," Jareth said, and when the child put his arms around his neck, he leaned back into the pillow. Sarah followed them down, and both of them put their arms around the boy, cradling him between them. Jareth stroked the hair gently from his forehead, then leaned down and placed a kiss between his eyes, imbued with a minor enchantment for sleep.

"Did you—" Sarah began.

"He will sleep until sunrise," Jareth confirmed.

"I'm sorry we couldn't…" she trailed off, but made her meaning clear with a caress along his hip that made him chuckle, and then yawn again.

"Tomorrow is soon enough, love. Sleep." He curled around them both, drawing Sarah close with a leg entwined at the knee and a hand at her waist. His to keep, his to protect, Sarah and the boy. Now and always.

* * *

Four days passed in a blink.  Ciro was the center of his days: he never tired of listening to stories, and Jareth never tired of telling them.  This time, he asked again and again for stories of people who turned into animals, and Jareth obliged: “The Three Swans” and “The White Duck” and “The Frog Prince” and “Beauty and the Beast” and many more besides.  Ciro begged him to “be an owl!” and Jareth showed him, but only once; he could not interact, so well, in that form. 

And at sunset, when Ciro slept, there was Sarah: content, devoted, caring Sarah, with sweet touches and passionate heat and all the little stories of the parts of Ciro he had not yet seen.  This was the first time he had had so many days in a row: there would be six in total, ranging in length from twenty to twenty-seven Aboveground hours.  It was long enough that they could fall into routine; long enough to forget, for a few days in the middle, that this was a tiny haven carved from the loneliness that came from living on the other side of the window.

There had been no domesticity, in his youth.  He had raised himself, more than anything, his mother still devoted to her duty, his father absent, unknown.  Among some Men, he had seen it, had craved it, that attention.  That love to a child.  In the past, early in his tenure, he had occasionally allowed the goblins to fill that role, entertaining and teaching them, their form maintaining that childlike wonder even as they lacked potential, lacked growth, lacked that spark that made Ciro ask him one moment whether having feathers tickled (not in the slightest) and the next whether or not he knew the name of every creature in the Labyrinth (of course, he did—when he bothered to remember). 

On the fourth day, knowing how long it had been since Sarah had done anything but remain inside with Ciro, he sent her out into the Labyrinth, taking charge of the boy for the day.  He took him to the Eyrie, the first time Ciro had been permitted out of Sarah’s rooms since his arrival.  Ciro loved the birds, and the view; Jareth pointed out various sections of the Labyrinth to him, telling him their stories, and when the child asked if there were other stories of shapechangers in the Labyrinth, or of flight, it was quite natural that Icarus should come to mind.  After all, the boy should know some of the history of his people.  They stayed, and watched, and played, until the stars came out and the boy fell asleep.

Sarah did not come in until long after dark; he woke when she came to bed, and pulled her close. She snuggled into his shoulder, and twined her fingers into his hair.

“Day okay?  Ciro behaved?”  She yawned into the last word, and he chuckled.

“Most of my subjects are childlike, Sarah; I am well capable of caring for children.”  She shrugged, and then nodded.  “How did you find your dwarf?”

“I’m sorry; I know you can, it’s just, you haven’t.”

“Not for lack of desire.”

“I know.”  She was quiet a moment.  “He has a name, you know.”  She poked him in the side, and he twisted, pinning her to dance light, tickling kisses along her neck and collarbone.

“Hogsbreath?”  he asked, and she giggled.  “Hobble?”

“Jareth!”

“You give him _my_ name?”  Instead of replying, she launched herself up at him, still laughing, kissing him hard so that he could not speak.  He broke the kiss with a smile, rolling them again so that she straddled his waist.

“It was nice to be out in the air, again,” she said, thoughtfully.  “I was thinking—could we change the boundaries of the spell to include the balcony?  I’m sure it can’t be good for Ciro to be so cooped up, either.”

He considered.  The spell was fragile; he had broken it easily, every time he visited.  It was safer to keep it mostly encased in stone, or just beyond glass, safe from interference.  But he had seen the light in the boy’s face today, up in the Eyrie, and his disappointment when he had suggested going back inside.  The rail of the balcony was solid, and the child old enough to learn not to push.

“We will make the attempt,” he decided, and she kissed him again.

* * *

Leaving days were never easy.  Re-casting the barrier took more than an hour, and Ciro was never happy about it.  Today was worse than ever; they had told him of the plan for the balcony, hoping to secure his cooperation, but it had had exactly the opposite effect: he could not hold still, and ran screaming back and forth between the rooms of Sarah’s suite, babbling on about birds and sunshine and Icarus.  He was tempted to put the child to sleep until they were finished, but too much magic was not good for the boy; Sarah was particularly sensitive about that.  He had been pushing it even that first night with the sleep spell.

The barrier spell began on the wall opposite the balcony; they would finish just adjacent, at the door to the King’s Stair.  Their hands, entwined, stroked over the walls and floor, then extended towards the ceiling, beckoning the barrier across the closed space.  Once begun, the spell required that they continue: they would be too tired to begin again, once the initial work was accomplished.  When they moved out to the balcony, Ciro followed, and seated himself in a chair Jareth had conjured the previous day, swinging his feet and watching them. The barrier shivered and waved as they drew it across the empty air, and for a brief moment Jareth thought they would falter, and leapt up onto the stone railing, reaching up to anchor the spell to the base of his chamber’s balcony above. 

“Daddy fly!”  The boy’s cry, loud and piercing, drew his attention, his eyes flying to the boy, who stood, now, on the chair, his hands on the railing, pushing up.

“Ciro, no!”  Sarah turned her head, and screamed.  The boy balanced, now, on the thick stone parapet, and put his hands against the barrier they had cast.

“I wanna fly!” Ciro’s hands on the barrier pounded, and then pushed, and Jareth began to leap down at the same time as Sarah pulled away, releasing the spell at the same moment as Ciro broke through the barrier.

Time slowed, then stopped, but wound up in casting and surprise, Jareth had no control as the broken, incomplete spell fizzled and then burst, Time and Magic intermixed and volatile.  He saw Sarah fly backwards, her head knocking hard against the stone wall; she did not rise.  He tumbled, head over feet, and fell halfway to the ground before he could Change, and fly.

And he saw Ciro, falling, his arms outstretched, and just before the boy hit the ground, he vanished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pleyel is a famous manufacturer of pianos based in Paris, and was the first to use a metal frame. Pleyel pianos were preferred by Chopin and several other composers of his era, and Chopin was also a regular performer at the Salle Pleyel, a Paris concert hall sponsored by the piano company, which still exists. The piano "looks different" to Sarah because it had fewer keys than a modern piano, and started on a low C (modern pianos start on an A). The piece Jareth played for Sarah is Chopin's [Prelude in E minor, Op. 28, No. 4](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AoRO_SDruVo).
> 
> The name Ciro comes from the Greek word Cirocco, and means "wind."  
> The title of this chapter comes from a quote from C.S. Lewis, from A Grief Observed: "No one ever told me that grief felt so much like fear."


	11. All Winds Go Sighing

**Chapter Eleven: All Winds Go Sighing**

_Friday, January 28, 2011, 10:27 PM_

"And I hit my head, and I passed out," Sarah finished, her voice distant and sad. Her hands were clasped, tightly, around her empty mug of tea, and she stared into its depths as though she could read her future in the few remaining drops. When she raised her eyes to his, Toby could see the shine of tears, though none fell. "When I woke up, Ciro was nowhere to be found."

He reached across the table, and took her hand.

"You must have wondered about this." She pulled her hand from his and gestured to her eyes, to the left pupil, and he saw that she had let her glamour drop, sometime during the telling, maybe just at the end. She kept it up, usually, and he was used to her looking human; the change to the otherworldly was unexpected and rather upsetting. The dark accents drew attention to her eyes, and they seemed greener, now. He remembered, vaguely, thinking that her eyes looked odd when she first arrived, but he'd written it off as an effect of the markings. Now, when she pointed it out, he could see that her right pupil was tightly contracted in the bright kitchen light, but the left pupil was wider, dilated, perhaps half her iris showing.

"Did you hurt your eye when you hit your head?"

"Not exactly. It's a magical injury, or, as Jareth says, the mark of a Time mage."

"A time mage?"

"When you're manipulating Time, you have to hold two contradictory concepts in your mind, together. " She held her hands out, palms up, gesturing a demonstration. "An easy way to visualize it is to see each on one half of your body: to literally see one speed in each eye. But it's volatile—really volatile—until you finish the spell and tie off all the loose ends. And if you stretch too far… if you lose control… if you exceed your abilities… well, it leaves a mark." She shook her head, suddenly, smiling a little. "Jareth's is worse than mine, and has been since I've known him."

"So what happened to Ciro?" He said it a little sharper than he meant to, because he didn't care about the Goblin King's random exploits, and he felt a little bad when she jumped, but she took a breath and then relaxed.

"When I came to—when Jareth healed me—he was gone."

"He… he died?" He didn't want to say it, but he needed to be sure; she had been talking in circles.

"No." Her mouth twisted, and she looked away. He almost screamed; she was the one who had initiated the conversation, so why was getting the end of the story so much like pulling teeth?

Then she sighed, and looked back at him. "I'm sorry, I should just tell you. It's just that it's been years, and it's still hard, and I'm afraid you won't quite understand. You see, he isn't dead."

He blinked, startled out of his frustration. "But you said he fell! Did something catch him?"

"No."

"Then—"

"I told you. The Underground changes you. Time Above controls Magic; Magic Below controls Time. It's the magic that changes you, into a caricature of yourself, if you aren't careful, if you aren't strong enough, or if you spend too much time in the company of those who are Changed. Children are never strong enough; you'd have to be a teenager, at least, to keep yourself whole. Even I struggled, and might have become nothing more than a single-minded creature, without Jareth's help and company when I first arrived."

Toby was silent, waiting for her to continue, but he found himself wondering, as she paused and looked down into her cup again, if she had changed on some more subtle level than she realized. This conversation had reminded him, rather painfully, that she wasn't human anymore either. She wasn't just his long-lost sister, she was something else as well. And what did this say about the nature of the Goblin King?

"We kept him away from the magic," she continued, "or so we thought. That was the whole point of the spell, to let Time rule his life instead, until he was grown. Jareth told me that it might not work, but I was so certain…." She sighed. "The spell held off the change, and we were with him, but when he fell… it was like all of that held magic caught up with him in a moment. He'd always wanted to fly."

"He… changed?"

"Little Wind, we called him. Because his name was Cirocco, after the wind that blows from Egypt. Jareth never knew—he was never around long enough to know—how much Ciro longed to fly. He would sit for hours at the window and watch—for birds, for Jareth, for anyone." She looked down again, wrapping her hands around her mug of tea as though seeking warmth from the empty cup. He couldn't help but notice that she was saying  _His_  name a lot more often, now.

"And?"

"He became one of the Labyrinth's creatures. A spirit of wind."

That didn't seem so bad. "So, you still see him?"

"Jareth does. I don't." She looked away. "I told you—Jareth can change form, he can become a bird. I can't do that. Ciro… he likes to stay high. Jareth can reach him. Even from the Eyrie, the highest tower in the Castle, I never could. And from what Jareth told me, he doesn't remember either of us, anyway. Just flight."

"I'm sorry." It seemed so inadequate. He wanted to hug her, but it didn't feel like the time; she was too closed in on her pain. Pain he couldn't help with. Pain old enough that perhaps it would never truly heal.

Tea was insufficient. He stood and went to the cabinet where he kept his alcohol, and took down a bottle of Knob Creek. He poured two fingers into a glass, then raised the bottle at Sarah in offering, but she shook her head no. He knocked it back all in one go and it burned its way down his throat, and provided an excuse for the tears in his eyes.

"So that's why," he said, voice slightly hoarse from the whiskey. He walked over and put his glass into the sink, staring out the kitchen window at the black night and the wall of the adjacent building. "That's why you brought Ruth here. Because you wanted a child." He glanced back, hesitantly.  _Not because you wanted to see me_.

"She needs to be raised Above, to be more than just another goblin." Sarah met his eyes steadily, her imperfectly perfect eyes piercing and alien, her voice more resonant than he remembered. "I'm here to see that she gets that chance."

* * *

"He looks just like this." Sarah stroked a hand down the nose of the little bronze bookend. Long removed from its forgotten cabinet, it now held up one end of the small section of books Sarah had planned to read that week. "His name is Hoggle, and he knows more about the Labyrinth than anyone but Jareth."

The wind howled and whistled around the apartment, rattling the thin, old windowpanes in their frames. It was late March, and hopefully this would be the last snowfall of the winter; Sarah had done a lot to weatherproof the apartment, but even so, the wind teased at the badly-joined window corners, stirring the heavy curtains where they lay closed against the cold. They sat curled on the couch, under each end of a heavy quilt; Toby could feel Sarah's toes pressed lightly against the outside of his thigh. Ruth slept against Sarah's shoulder, under the blanket; she was teething now, and fussier than she'd ever been. But at the moment she was quiet, and he found that he loved this cozy, domestic comfort. And having so much of Sarah's attention.

"What about you?" Toby asked. "I thought you said you walked all the way through it?" He leaned back, and took a sip of his hot chocolate, savoring the slight  _crunch_  of the freeze-dried marshmallows. Sarah might scoff, but he loved the boxed mix Mom had stocked in his childhood, both for its ease of preparation and for the syrupy-sweet nostalgia of it.

"I did," Sarah shrugged, "but that was the Longest Path. It doesn't mean I know all the shortcuts."

"Do you know any of them?"

She smiled. "Some. I know the way I went originally, and a few more, and the Shortest Path."

"Shortest Path? Longest Path?" He looked at her over his mug and raised an eyebrow. "Are they all named like that? The 'Sort-of-a-Pain' Path? The 'Lengthy Detour Somewhere Unpleasant' Path?" Ever since she had told him of Ciro, she had been full of stories of the Labyrinth; it was easier to hear her talk about her former home when he could joke about it, and when it wasn't directly related to the Fucking Goblin King. In those moments, Sarah usually spoke of her previous life in a lighthearted, happy way, without the angst associated with her ex-lover. The travel-guide version of the Labyrinth made him feel closer to her, instead of imposing a distance he could never cross.

Sarah blinked at him, for a moment, and then smiled wider. "It's funny, when you do that, you look…." She trailed off, shaking her head. "No. Those are the only Named paths that I know of. And probably the most different, too."

"Why?"

She shrugged, and took a long sip of her own hot chocolate, which she had carefully prepared from milk, cocoa, and sugar, whisking them together on the stove, and then topped with fresh whipped cream. "The Longest Path is for contemplation. Have you ever seen a meditation labyrinth?"

"A what?"

"It's an old form of meditation. Lines laid out on the ground, usually; you followed the line through a series of convoluted shapes, woven together into a larger shape, all the way to a central point and then back out again."

"So… how is that a labyrinth? I mean, if it doesn't have any turnings?"

"Some people say that's the difference between a labyrinth and a maze—a maze has a destination, and multiple branches. But even the Cretan Labyrinth must have had turnings, or it couldn't have contained the Minotaur, so it isn't really that clean cut. But the Longest Path is a meditation labyrinth: no turnings involved. I mean, yes, some parts have minor walls, but you can always keep going in one general direction, between the major walls, and you'll transition from one section of the Labyrinth to another seamlessly. Useless if you're trying to win—it takes far more than thirteen hours to walk the Endless Ring, let alone the rest of it—but fascinating, and a good way to learn about yourself."

_Or waste away from boredom_ , Toby thought, but he didn't say it. "And the Shortest Path?"

"That one is pure puzzle," she answered, "which is how most people who get anywhere get through the Labyrinth: by solving puzzles that let you move quickly from one section to the next. The Shortest Path is the easiest of these, but the most difficult to find."

"What makes it easy?" He was intrigued in spite of himself, and even though he would never see this place.

Sarah shook her head. "It's no fun to just tell you. But I'll tell you what Jareth told me, and if you can figure out how it works, I'll confirm it. He told me that the secret to the Shortest Path was to always turn left, except for one place where one must make the Right Turn, or else end up on a path that goes directly to the castle dungeons, and not the throne room or anywhere useful."

"You say his name all the time, now," Toby said, instead of answering. It seemed like a silly riddle, and he'd never been much of a riddle person. "Aren't you worried about it anymore?"

"No." Sarah sighed and looked down in her cup, and Toby mentally kicked himself for bringing  _Him_  to mind. He'd tried to do so less, since the talk about Ciro, but his curiosity had gotten the better of him. "If he were going to show up for a mention of his name, I've slipped up enough that it would've happened by now."

"Maybe he never will." He smiled, but Sarah only glanced up at him, and then looked away.

"Maybe."

* * *

"Holy shit." The apartment smelled like chili spices, but that wasn't so strange; Sarah usually had dinner ready when Toby came home. But it was also covered in books. Teetering stacks of crumbling, used paperbacks lined the walls and clustered around the couch; hardcovers, most with library bindings, stacked the table like a wall of bricks. Four bags of old magazines were slumped against the television, one dripping open to spill its contents on the floor.

"Hey, Toby." Sarah waved at him, not looking up from her book. "There's chips in the cupboard and grated cheese in the fridge."

"What did you do, rob a library?" He slid his coat off and hung it on the rack by the door, and ran his fingers through his hair, shaking out the late April rain.

"Not exactly."

"Not exactly?"

"Well, I can't get a library card. But the books show as checked out in their system, and I didn't take more than the limit."

"What's the limit?" It was the only thing he could think to ask. The sheer volume of literature was mind-boggling.

"Seventy-five." She turned a page.

"Seventy…" he shook his head, looking around. "This is more than seventy-five."

"They also had a book sale. Bag of books for $5. I paid for those."

"In favors?"

"Of course not!" Toby was glad; Sarah had explained how the Fucking Goblin King tricked people into helping him and reciprocated by using magic to help them, but he considered that method little better than outright robbery and had made that quite clear to Sarah early on. "But I haven't spent all you gave me for food every week."

"Oh." He walked into the kitchen to dish out his dinner, noting the addition of a battered stack of cookbooks piled haphazardly next to the sink.

"The other side of the table is clear," she said, when he reappeared, and sure enough, she had left one seat bare. He sat down between a tower of science fiction and another of classic literature, the latter topped, incongruously, with a beat-up copy of  _Twilight_. He made a face, annoyed; usually they ate together, with Ruth as well if she was awake, and it had become a pleasant bookend to his day.

"I'm sorry, I meant to put more of them in my bedroom before you got home," she said, "but Ruth fell asleep, and then I picked this up." She waved the library hardcover held in her hand, and turned another page. "Also, I need bookshelves."

"Should be some cheap ones at Target," he said, "or maybe secondhand, if you don't mind fixing them. I guess we can look this weekend." Not that he wanted to—he wanted to spend it on the couch playing video games, or maybe drinking—but the apartment couldn't be left in its current state of disarray. Ruth had started to crawl; it wasn't safe. And Sarah should've thought of that.

"Mm." She frowned at the book.

"Why that one?"

"What?"

"Why did you pick that one, out of all of these?"

She bit her lip and flicked her eyes at him, and then away, and he knew, before she spoke. "It's new. Recent. And it reminds me of Him."

Jealousy surged and rode straight into anger. "Why? Why do you do that? It's like you're trying to torture yourself."

"Torture myself?" She turned another page; she hadn't even looked up at him.

"Sarah!" he said, sharply, standing. "Would you put that down and talk to me?"

"What?" She did lower the book this time, looking over at him and frowning. He took three quick strides—all that was necessary to reach her—and snatched the book from her hands, folding it closed and laying it on top of the stack on the end table. He stood there a moment, breathing hard, not even certain he could name the exact source of his fury.

"Toby, what is wrong with you?"

Right, that was it. "With me? With  _me_? You're the one moping around here all day, doing nothing but finding ways to make yourself think of things that hurt you!"

"I—the book?" She blinked at him, for a moment, and then her mouth hardened. "You don't understand what you're talking about."

"I don't? So you don't take every chance you can to wallow in your past?"

"It's not—"

"It is. You came here and begged me for help. You said you wanted to get to know me. You don't have the power to go back alone. You could be getting to know me, or  _seeing_  what's changed in the world since you were gone, instead of just reading about it. You could meet new people. You could be looking for work; you told me you wanted to do that, but you can't even get a library card. Instead you sit here and read through my bookshelves, and don't go out except for groceries, and almost never tell me what you're thinking unless I grill you. Ever since you told me about Ciro."

"That's not fair, Toby."

"Isn't it?"

"I can't—look, I tried, okay? I can't leave Ruth, so I have limited time, and nothing I've tried to get people to recognize me works. It would be easier to create a new identity."

"Then you should—"

"And  _friends_?" She made a contemptuous gesture. "How can I make  _friends_? 'Hi, I'm Sarah. No no, she's only my foster child. Oh, that man I live with? My brother. No husband. Yes, I foster anyway. What's that you say? That's not how the foster system works? You'll be calling the cops?'"

"Really, Sarah—"

"And even if it didn't go that way, how well could I let someone know me? I don't age. I can't explain why I remember the '70s without seeming insane. And the Internet is… weird now. So all there is is this—this petty, small world, that I can't be part of because nothing here will last. And this…" she waved, taking in the books, her voice dropping as tears appeared at the corners of her eyes, "this… this could help him. And the more I read, the less I have to think."

"Think about what?" The words made a question, but his voice was flat, cold. She looked away. "About whether you did the right thing? About whether you should've come here? About whether he's coming at all?"

She flinched when he said the last, and he was glad, but he wasn't finished.

"You come here and turn my world upside down," he went on, and she looked at him sharply, "and at first it was fine, but I can't deal with you constantly pining away. You made the decision to come here, and  _He_  might never come. You're  _here_ , Sarah. Find a way to be  _here._ It's not fair to Ruth or to me to make us play second fiddle to a memory."

"I—"

"No." Toby turned to the door, and shrugged back into his coat, stuffing his phone and his wallet into his pockets. "No more excuses. Think about it. I'm going out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two book series have come to my attention since I began writing this story, which contain elements that align rather closely with how my world works. ’Tis quiet true that there is nothing new under the sun! The first was Orson Scott Card’s The Lost Gate, which includes a race of man-like people from another world who have magic and were once worshipped as the gods of Men, all the old gods except the God of Abraham. It was published in January 2011, but did not come to my attention until February 2014, when I ran across its sequel in an airport bookstore (and subsequently purchased both books for my Kindle). The second was Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files, which began publication in 2000 but which I didn’t read until August 2014. In those books, all the old gods are real as well, and there are others who have been forgotten (see the short story featuring Thomas, from Side Jobs).   
> When I wrote the first draft of that section (in the spring of 2014), I intended for Sarah to be reading The Lost Gate, but really, any number of fantasy books published since 2000-ish could be laid, in part, at Jareth’s door. I wish I could claim that I cleverly set my story when I did to take advantage of the renaissance of fantasy writing that began in the late 90s, but I really can’t; it is nothing more than fortuitous coincidence. Perhaps we can blame Jareth.
> 
> Also, the chapter title is from Christina Rosetti’s poem, “A Dirge.”


	12. That With the Dead Has Been

**Chapter 12: That With the Dead Has Been**

_5980 Days (June 30, 2007)_

Warm air rose from the sun-heated stones of the Goblin City, soft like a caress through his feathers as Jareth wheeled, circling over his domain, low at first, then using the heated air to rise ever higher. It was just sunset, and the burnt orange-red of the horizon set the City alight in the colors of flame; below him, goblins sought shelter in the ramshackle houses that lined the streets, or simply lay down where they were, content to rest for the coming darkness. In the Junkyard, the scraps and treasures shifted and settled, encumbered Junk People snugging down for the night around tight piles of gathered effects, remnants of people they once had been or once wished to be. Each layer of the Labyrinth stretched before him as he circled higher, noting the sounds of night in each: the burping mist rising from the Bog, the bonfire in the Fiery Forest, the glittering lights in the Forest of Forgetfulness, the rustling and resettling of the Hedge Maze, which only moved when no one was looking.

Up he climbed, past the highest point of the City, and swooped in towards the Castle, circling tight around it, noting that no light showed in any of the windows. The Castle goblins would have long since settled; he sought only a hint of Sarah’s doings.

Ciro’s accident had changed her. Once, she had been as present to his senses as a subject of the Labyrinth: he could find her at will, sensing her exact location within his domain with no more than a thought. Now that knowledge was denied to him, and neither could he use the more mundane crystal scrying in this form. Perhaps it had been the accident, or perhaps it was merely magic catching up to her, as it had to Ciro; either way, she was different, since that day. Before, she had been human, though touched by Magic; now she had changed more than he had thought possible, becoming, in appearance at least, more like the women of his own race that he remembers from his youth. Her face had thinned, becoming more angular, and her eyes slanted sharply, the marks that matched his own now firmly defined, not the vague suggestions they had been when Ciro came to them. She had always been beautiful, human lushness and her own perfection accented, over time, by those early marks of immortal power, but just as her teenaged promise had blossomed into womanhood in the years between her victory and the day she called him again, the human woman’s beauty was now sharpened by her magic, heightened and perfected beyond the capability of the race of Man. Her mind, her emotions, had changed as well: she was quieter, less impulsive, less passionate, slower to display emotion, perhaps slower to feel it.

She was more beautiful, but she was colder, too. And he was glad that in this Change, for Change it must be called—she was now no more human than he was himself—she had not lost her essential personality. The spark that made her _Sarah_ remained, as did all of her memories; her present mood reminded him of her despair and boredom before Ciro changed them. It could easily be attributed to grief, which would ease with time. And she had proven, definitively, that Man could become Immortal, though the demonstration had come at a terrible cost.

But she had never cried for Ciro.

Jareth had mourned for the boy, and for Sarah and what she had lost, in those terrifying first hours, when he had healed the bruise to her head and yet she did not awaken. He was sorry that the child’s full potential was lost, yes, but as Lord of the Labyrinth he could feel the boy still, and knew that he was well. Sarah had concerned him far more.

_The bruise is healed. Why does she not wake? He feels her pulse, in her throat: it is steady, firm. She breathes, in and out, regular and slow. Is she only sleeping? But if she is sleeping, why will she not wake?_

_He watches her all night, but by morning, there is still no change. Yet her pulse is steady and strong, and so he pulls her close, wrapping around her, speaking more than he has in years, broken words that beg her not to leave him._

He circled wide again, still following the thermal, but saw no sign of her in the Castle tower: not in her rooms or in his. Not that he expected her to be in her own room; she had not been there at all, not since Ciro. They had never discussed it; he had simply brought her upstairs, after Ciro’s fall, and she had never returned. For a few days, the door had stood open, but one day he passed it when returning from the Throne Room, and it was closed. He was certain, from that moment forward, never to close his own doors, either to keep her in or to keep her out.

He would be whatever she needed, if only she would permit it.

_Her eyes open, and now he sees what he had missed, in his fear. The perfection of her features. The sharp definition of her eyes. The pupils, one wide like his own, one tightened to a pinprick in the bright sunlight streaming in the window. She is no longer human, and the realization is like a chord strummed deep in his soul: truly, finally, he is no longer alone._

He turned towards the Castle again as he came level with the Eyrie, hoping against hope that he would find Sarah there, but again she was absent. As he turned away, intending to circle out to the colder air over the Labyrinth in order to descend, a sudden warm gust caught him, a gust which denied the logic of rising air and sun-heated stone. It pushed him sideways and up, faster and higher than he would have chosen to rise, and a hint of laughter flowed over and around him, like a child’s tentative fingers exploring his feathers.

_Ciro_.

Not truly, not anymore. Not the child he had loved, however distantly. Not the child Sarah still grieved. But he gave a hoot, and let himself be spun, rejoicing in the exertion of flight, in the blossomed magic of the playful, childlike spirit, in the knowledge that however changed the boy might be, even if he was less, he was _happy_. A cold wind blew in from the opposite direction, twisting him over again, and he could here two laughs, now, one girlish and sweet, one childish and free. The name of the other spirit was lost to time, but he was glad, also, that Ciro was not alone.

For twenty-two minutes they circled and played, tossing him between them, and he allowed it, glad of the simple diversion, for the physical challenge of keeping his equilibrium between the two happy spirits. The sun had long since set when they finally released him, and the warm air over the city was cooling, making it easy to circle down towards the Castle tower again.

And as he circled down, he saw her.

Sarah stood on his balcony, watching the night. Once she, like his subjects, would have fallen asleep soon after sunset, unless she made an effort to stay awake or he woke her. Now she seemed to feel the pressure of sundown as little as he did: while he still needed to sleep, there was little magical encouragement to do so.

He circled around the tower, coming behind her, and transformed and landed in the same motion, the movement so precise and practiced that his feet, meeting the ground, were as silent as his owl’s wings.

“Hello, Jareth,” she said.

She always knew.

“Sarah.” He stepped closer.

“Does the moon here match the moon Above?”

Every day she asked different questions, though they were always elementary, like this one. This was the fortieth such day.

“It is similar.”

“How?”

“It simply is.”

“But _how_?”

He took another step, and leaned against the balcony railing, turning so that he could look into her face.

“The Underground is in many ways a mirror of the world Above. You know this, Sarah.”

Her eyes flicked to his, and then away.

“I just want to know how much—how close it is.”

“You know the answer to that, as well.”

She nodded, once. “It depends. Yes?”

Bare inquiry. Empty.

“As you say.”

She nodded, as though to herself. “I must start from fundamentals.”

He turned towards the Labyrinth, sleeping quietly now, the wind in the distant forest and the shifting stones of the nearer sections mixing in a soft shushing whisper, so much a part of his life that he only noticed it when he paid attention. Even he had limits. The Labyrinth, and those here, and his duties to the World Above, and Sarah, always Sarah, filled his mind; it had been hundreds of years since he had considered such simple questions. Not since he had explored the fundamentals of magic with Koliada, and even then he had never thought to ask about the moon.

Her questions did remind him not to take his realm for granted. The Labyrinth was many things, to him, and had been for most of his life: duty, prison, sanctuary.

Home. More home than ever, since she came.

“Will I ever have my own stars?”

He turned back to her, raising his eyebrow at her question. “I am afraid not, no.”

“Why?”

“I do not know how it is done.”

“‘I move the stars for no one?’” She gave a wry chuckle, and he treasured the sound. Sarcastic as it was, her laughter was far too rare.

“I did not know you heard that.” He smiled at her, amused that she would bring up his words from so long ago. “Surely you will comprehend that I was speaking poetically.”

“You said it right to me. But I find my memory is improving, particularly my memory for things that happened here.”

“What else do you remember?” He rested a hand lightly at her back, and she permitted it, turning her head towards him slightly.

“Nothing you haven’t told me over and over,” she said with a shrug. “I know how much you need me.”

That seemed an odd thing to say. It was not untrue; she had provided focus and strength when his was failing, and he would go on far longer with her presence than he would have alone. But that was in the past; the decision was made. He opened his mouth, not yet certain how he would reply but believing one was needed, but before he could speak, she turned towards the Labyrinth again, moving her body just enough that his hand lost contact. He let it fall, instead of following her.

“I saw you,” she said, after a moment. “Flying.”

“Yes?”

“You….” She trailed off, and glanced at him briefly. “I’ve seen you before. You don’t usually… you looked like you were… _playing_.”

He did not know if telling her would help her or hurt her, but how could he not tell her?

“Sarah—“

“I know.” She blinked, and he could see her lashes flutter and then still, her eyes closing, and to his surprise he saw a tear, formed at the corner of her eye, drip down her cheek, a tiny crystal in the brilliant moonlight.

A tear.

“Sarah….” He touched her hair, lightly, and he could feel her whole body trembling, just a little.

The tear turned the corner of her mouth, and ran down her jaw, splashing soundlessly on the stone balcony edging in a tiny, nearly perfect circle. He watched it spread through the irregularities in the surface in the rock, darkening the banded gneiss so that the little flecks of plagioclase and quartz sparkled all the brighter.

A second splashed down as he watched.

“I know he Changed. I knew he was still out there somewhere. Seeing you with him shouldn’t change anything.”

His hand slid down her shoulder, arm wrapping around her as he stepped closer. She stood passive, in that half-embrace, but she didn’t stiffen or pull away.

This was her heart, unlocked, if only a little, for the first time since that fall. She put a hand on the balcony, next to the stain of her tears, and he laid his other hand over it, afraid to speak lest he disturb this fragile moment.

“It shouldn’t matter,” she said again, and shook her head sharply, once, twice. “It shouldn’t. It won’t. I should be glad that he’s—glad that you—I—“ But the tears were coming, in spite of her battle, and she shuddered, a full-body movement that drew her deeper into his embrace. “I can’t—do you know—Jareth, what will I _do_?”

He gave in to desire and pulled her close, and she came, falling against him, her fingers clutching into his shirt as she buried her face in his chest, broken, shaking with tears. Had he known how hard the loss of the child would be for her, he would not have permitted the attempt in the first place. But what was done was done.

And there was only one answer, one he had taught himself over and over in his lonely centuries, as his people fell to dust. “Endure,” he whispered. “Endure.”

* * *

Eventually, her tears quieted, and she sagged against him, her eyes closed. The wind on the balcony was cold, and if her body no longer demanded rest at sunset, sleep would do her good: it had a healing power of its own. He shifted and lifted her, and she made another quiet whimper against his shoulder, nuzzling into his collarbone. He opened the bed with the flick of a finger and placed her in it, then followed her down when she locked her fingers into his collar and refused to let go. Her mouth sought his, and he responded automatically, tasting her tears, feeling the weakness of her sobs and the strength of her fear in the tremble of her lips and the varying pressure of her kiss.

They had hardly touched since Ciro’s fall, and they had not been intimate, though she slept in his bed. A return to their normal existence, that life they had had before the child, would be healing. He pulled her closer, one hand around her waist, the other cradling her head, and deepened the kiss.

She tasted of grief.

Sarah broke the kiss, finally, with a sigh, then ducked to hide her face in his neck as she yawned. She snuggled closer, and stilled, her eyes closed.

Jareth kissed the crown of her head, and let her sleep.

* * *

He woke to an empty bed. He searched; Sarah was not in his sitting room, or on the balcony, or in the Eyrie. This was not completely unexpected—she spent time in the Library occasionally, though she had not left the Castle since Ciro’s loss—but it was unusual that she would depart before he arose. He dressed and began the descent towards the Relative Stairs, but stopped quickly: Sarah’s door was open.

“Sarah?” He peeked inside, cautiously, verifying that she had not simply entered her sitting room. The room was scrupulously clean of dust—he had never allowed the magic to fail—but a large rucksack lay half-opened on the chaise, a thick notebook and pen sticking out of the front pocket. The tray in the corner, usually stacked with the food the occupant had not known they wanted, sat half-uncovered, and was, as far as he could see, empty.

He moved towards the bedroom, whose door also stood open, but before he could enter, the door to Ciro’s room, which had been closed, opened, and Sarah appeared, holding a carved owl that Jareth had made for the boy long before his fall. She closed the door, and it disappeared into the wall.

“How did you do that?” It had not been his first thought—he was far more interested to see that Sarah had been in these rooms, again, at all—but the Castle was supposed to obey him alone.

She glanced at him, and then at the spot on the wall where the door had been. “I didn’t do it on purpose. I suppose I was finished with it.” She crossed to the chaise and tucked the carving into the rucksack.

“Finished?” She would no longer remember? Or she would no longer grieve? She had saved the carving.

“There’s no reason for the door to stay here, haunting me. It’s better that it’s gone.”

_Endure_ , he had told her. What was this?

She entered the bedroom, and he followed slowly. This was the most animated he had seen her since her Change, but the reason for that animation was as important as the truth of it. He stopped in the doorway, watching as she pulled a light jacket from her armoire and shrugged into it. Sturdy boots followed, and she kicked her light slippers off her feet as she walked to the chair by the balcony and sat to pull on the boots.

She was dressed for traveling, but today was too Short to spend much time in the Labyrinth. Did she mean to go somewhere close? But there was the rucksack, and the empty tray, and the carving.

“Where are you going?”

She was still looking at her feet, tying her laces, but he recognized the twitch of her eyebrows: she did not wish to answer his question.

He crossed his arms, and marked the beginning of the two minutes of silence they allowed each other, counting silently.

At sixty-two seconds, she sighed, and looked up at him. “I’m going into the Labyrinth. I want to walk the Longest Path.”

The Longest Path. He knew every inch of his Labyrinth, but he had never walked the entire Path without stopping. There was always something else to do, and he knew it so well that he had never seen the point.

“Why?”

She stood, and walked to a mirror on the wall, twisting her hair into a bun as she moved. Once it was secured, she met his eyes in the mirror, and one corner of her mouth twisted up, just a bit: not a smile, but an acknowledgement. “Because I can’t stay here.”

_I will never let you go_.

“Sarah—“

“I need to get out of the Castle. To be alone. To think. That’s all.” She gave her hair a final pat. He wanted to go to her, to pull it down, just so she would have to stay long enough to fix it again.

He said nothing.

“Look, Jareth.” She turned to face him, then crossed the room as she spoke, exiting back to the sitting room. He followed. “You told me this would happen. You knew. You wrote it in your letter, that we’d grow apart. That there would be times when we were not together. That the only constant in this life was change.”

“But I—we—“ He _had_ written that, it was true, but he had never imagined that it would be she who required space. He had been alone for a long time. He had anticipated that he would wish to spend time alone again; it was part of the reason that they still kept separate apartments, even though they had nearly always slept together since her return.

And the original statement had also related to desire. Did she desire him no longer? They had not been intimate in a very long time.

“It’s not about you, Jareth. And it isn’t your fault.”

“You have been different since Ciro fell, Sarah. I want to give you what you need.”

“I need to be alone.”

“We lost him together,” he countered. “We should grieve _together_ , not this strange semblance of togetherness we have been living, but truly _together_.”

“Jareth, I…” Tears stood in her eyes again, but then she turned away, and her voice, when she spoke, was low, and sharp. “This _isn’t_ about Ciro.”

“Do not lie to me, Sarah!” He closed the distance between them, gripping her shoulder and spinning her roughly to face him. “And do not lie to yourself. Not ever. It will never serve you.”

“I—“ Her breath caught in her throat as their eyes met, and he saw her expression soften, just for a moment, before her determination came back. “Fine. But it isn’t _just_ about Ciro. And that’s the truth.”

“Whatever it is, let me help you,” he said softly.

“You can’t.” She shook her head. “You’ve tried. But you can’t. I have to do this alone.”

His hands shifted, sliding down her back to draw her close, and placed a kiss on her forehead. She allowed it, her arms wrapping around his waist as her head came to rest in its familiar position against his chest.

No good would come of fighting this. “Sarah, if you need me….”

“I know.” She kissed him, where her mouth rested. “I’ll call.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gneiss is a metamorphic rock that frequently contains small crystals recrystalized after the metamorphic process. The name is believed to come from the High German word gneist, which means “spark,” because the rock, well… sparkles. I do not posit that most of the Labyrinth is built of gneiss—it appears to be sandstone, which sometimes also sparkles (it’s the quartz)—but I thought something nicer was appropriate for Jareth’s private domain.
> 
> The chapter title is from the Easter hymn “Now the Green Blade Rises.”


	13. Flame and Moth

**Chapter Thirteen: Flame and Moth**

_April 30, 2011, 10:22 AM_

There was an iron band wrapped tight around Toby’s skull, and something smelled like cheap vanilla and hard liquor.

_Soft breasts under his hands, and breathy gasps; sweet curves moving under him, clenching around him. He kisses her neck and murmurs, “Sarah.”_

Hesitantly, he tried to open one eye, then shut it again with a groan. The room was bright, and far too pink. Pink?

_“Think about it. I’m going out.” He slams the door hard and storms out into the hall, down the stairs. At the door of the building he sees it is raining again, but even that will not stop him: he can’t go back, not now. Not back to Sarah’s pining, and the messy apartment, and the weight of unanswered questions. Not after he just walked out._

_Ten blocks later he’s soaked and starving, the memory of Sarah’s chili that he didn’t eat another goad to his anger, companion to the rain and the loneliness and that frustrated desire that he couldn’t—wouldn’t—shouldn’t feel. In another block there’s a diner, and that’s a start._

His arm was asleep, fingers barely responding. He tried to pull it out, tried to figure out what was going on, and finally settled for just rolling in that direction, gingerly, when he decided that he really wasn’t going anywhere. This time, when he opened his eyes, he was able to keep them open, though the room still seemed really bright.

_Chowder isn’t chili, but it hits something like the same spot. He leaves a pile of bills—the waitress understood real quick that he didn’t want to be bothered—and heads out, but his head isn’t quiet yet. Too wound up. No more distracting hunger. Maybe too sober._

_He’s walked some distance in a random direction when his phone rings and he stops under an awning to answer it in the increasing downpour. Dave. Bar. Yes._

Oh. So that was why he couldn’t move.

_The first thing he sees when he enters the club is Dave, leaning against the bar, a girl on each side. They’re young enough that they might be here on fake IDs, and dressed like they want to leave with someone. Dave’s got one hand wrapped snugly around the blonde’s waist. The brunette is facing away from Toby, one hand on her hip as she looks at her friend._

_“Tobes!” Dave waves him over with a grin. “Too long since I seen you, man! How’s things?”_

She was facing away from him, her dark curls a tangled mess. Her hair smelled like sweat and stale hairspray. And her name was—

_The brunette is grinning up at him, already leaning in like she wants to wrap around him the same way her friend is wrapped around Dave._

_“I’m Sara,” she says. “Spelled without an ‘H.’” Well, that’s… interesting._

_“Is this where you tell me you’re looking for a Zak without a ‘C?’” He smiles at her, but she just blinks in confusion; clearly she doesn’t get the reference. “Nevermind. I’m Toby. Buy you a drink?”_

_“Diet Coke and Malibu,” she agrees. Her dark hair is short and curly; her eyes are probably hazel, but he can pretend they’re green in the dark of the bar. The drinks come and they adjourn to a table, and she sits down right in his lap._

_“You look so formal,” she says, loosening his tie. “Time to unwind.” She pulls the knot free, leaving the tie draped around his neck, and unbuttons the button at his collar, and then the next. She leans in and plants a kiss against his chest, and unbuttons one more, her fingers light and warm through his undershirt._

_“Came right from work,” he smiles, heat in his eyes. He reaches around her to unbutton his cuffs and roll them up, using the motion to pull her closer. She giggles, and kisses him on the corner of his mouth._

He leaned up and over her, looking down at her profile. Her mouth was open and sort of drooling, and her breath smelled like cheap booze.

_He’s lost count of how many drinks he’s had, but he’s still feeling good: alive and free and happy and not thinking about beautiful insane otherwordly sisters. So it can’t have been too many. And there’s a pretty girl named Sarah in his arms, giggling and pressing up against him. He can see her tits down her top, a whole lot of flesh held in by a concoction of mostly lace that looks like it’s straining to hold in its burden. They’re bigger than his Sarah’s, and obviously dressed to be seen._

The sheet had slipped, exposing her to the waist. She did have really nice tits.

_She yanks his pants down and takes him in her mouth and he reaches a hand to her hair, twisting his fingers in the short strands. It’s dark, and her hair is falling across her face, and the hair’s dark too, and it’s safe enough here to let the fantasy play and not think about it too hard._

He couldn’t remember the last time he went home with a girl, instead of taking her back to his place, especially not someone who still lived in a _dorm_. He really should be older than this. But he couldn’t have taken her back to his place. Sarah was there. At least she had a single, or something; there wasn’t anyone else in the room.

He should have felt bad, using her like this. She was too young for him.

_He rolls her under him and thrusts into her and it’s been longer than he likes and she’s warm and willing and active and responsive, and all on offer, legs wrapping eagerly around his waist._

He didn’t.

He lay back and looked at the ceiling, performing a mental inventory. His head was pounding, but he wasn’t nauseous, and while certain events of the previous evening were a bit blurry, he certainly remembered all of it—the bar, and the bed. Overall, he’d been drunk, and the headache would last, but it wasn’t that bad. And he must have had some water or something too, because holy shit did he need to pee. His dick was hard and aching, tenting the sheets, and his bladder felt like it was about to burst.

He pulled on his arm again, and this time Sara rolled onto her back at the same time as he shifted, and he was free. Carefully, he stood, but his initial impression held: he wasn’t going to puke, or fall on his face. Good. Now for clothing.

He spotted his pants crumpled at the foot of the bed, his boxers tangled in the legs. When he leaned over to pick them up, he wobbled a bit, so he sat gingerly on the edge of the bed to put them on.

“Hey,” murmured a sleepy voice from behind him. “Just sneaking out, then?”

“Bathroom.” He turned back to her as he leaned down for his pants, and she turned around in the bed, bringing her face level with his penis.

“Someone woke up happy.” She smiled, and reached to stroke him, but he bent instead, leaning away as he pulled his pants on. She pouted, rolling on her stomach and kicking her feet up in the air, breasts pushed out at him. “C’mon. We had fun last night.”

“Yeah,” he grunted, “maybe later.” He turned, looking for his shirt, but he didn’t see it right away and it didn’t matter. He _really_ had to pee. “Bathroom?”

“Down the hall on the left.” She sighed and flopped down on her face.

He found the bathroom easily, without running into anyone, though he could hear giggling from a room across the hall. He unzipped and looked down at himself.

Fucking morning wood. He had to pee too bad to be able to come, and was too hard to be able to pee. Experimentally, he stroked himself, but yeah, orgasm was definitely not going to happen, even if he went back to Sara for some help.

Sara.

Sarah.

Fuck.

He sat down on the toilet, pushing down to try to ease some of the pressure, and took a deep breath, trying to relax. Sarah. Would be at home. Would know he hadn’t been home. Would look at him with questions, and wonder where he’d been.

Fuck, he was better than this. Older than this. Three years out of college and here he was back to the walk of shame, and it was all Sarah’s fault. Her fault for being in his life, for being so wonderful, so desirable, so unobtainable, and sometimes? Such a fucking bitch.

Sometimes he worried that he was too obvious, that surely she had to know. That she brought up the _Fucking Goblin King_ just to rub it in his face: “I belong to someone else. You don’t stand a chance.” But most of the time, he couldn’t think she was that cruel. Someone who cared enough to do everything she had for him, and for Ruth too, wouldn’t dick around with his feelings on a whim.

Right?

Not the sister who loved him, who saved him, whose voice he’d heard all the time growing up. The sister who’d given up her dreams for him, who’d come home to him.

She couldn’t be that cruel. She had to be more. Anything else just wouldn’t be _fair_. It wouldn’t be right. This was the way the story had to go. It had to be.

At least the question had somewhat deflated his dick. Finally peeing felt almost as good as an orgasm.

* * *

Sara was dressed when he got back to the room, in tight Lycra pants and a pink sports bra. He caught her eye in the mirror as she finished pulling her hair back, two little pigtails sitting high on her head, flyaway wisps of hair held back by a thin green band. She raised a glass of water and took a long drink, then set it back down next to an empty bottle of cheap vodka, which, come to think of it, probably explained a lot about why he could remember the bar-and-sex part, but not so much the part where he’d decided to spend the night.

“Come back for your shirt?” She smiled at him, and he raised an eyebrow. Fucking kids and their cheerful lack of hangover. Or maybe she’d had less than he had. How much did he drink?

And where the fuck was his tie?

“You’re off, then?”

“Yeah—promised my friend I’d meet her for a run.” She leaned over to tie her shoes, and damn, she really did have fantastic tits. In that position they were almost escaping from the top of her bra.

“Sure.”

“Hey,” she straightened, and came to him. “We had fun, yeah?”

He mustered a smile. “We did.”

“So text me,” she stepped close, and pressed a little slip of paper into his hand, “if you want to do it again.” And she kissed him on the cheek, and moved towards the door.

“Okay.” His head hurt too much to summon wit.

“Door locks when it closes,” she tucked a key into the hollow between her breasts, “so don’t leave anything behind.”

* * *

A while later, he had found his shirt, tied his shoes, given up on the tie, and finished off the glass of water she’d left on the dresser. He found the nearest set of stairs and walked slowly down, feeling old. Each landing was decorated with fluorescent posters demanding that he join one activity or another, the bright colors a torment to his still-recovering eyeballs. There was a crowd of students leaving when he found the exit, and he stepped up and unobtrusively included himself with their group, bypassing the security guard. Had he been signed in, last night?

Not that it really mattered.

Outside, the day was warmer than he’d thought it would be, or maybe—he squinted at the sun—it was just later. He pulled his phone and checked: it was almost eleven. Sarah would definitely be awake.

Sarah.

He had two messages from Dave, neither of which made much sense, and the usual flood of Facebook notifications. Nothing from Sarah, even though he’d eventually replaced her early cheap throw-away phone with a basic free smartphone on his plan.

And seriously, where the fuck had the rain gone? Not that he was so keen to get wet, but a few clouds wouldn’t go amiss. His head felt like it was going to crawl back down his throat. Fuck this hangover bullshit. Apparently he didn’t drink enough anymore, because he’d definitely lost the knack. He flicked his phone over to Maps and found the nearest public transit stop. He needed a shower, and more water, and a Tylenol, and all of those things were at home.

Home.

Sarah.

Fuck.

* * *

He unlocked the apartment door to the sound of discordant chiming. Sarah sat in the living room, legs outstretched around Ruth, a child’s xylophone open before them. Sarah reached out and hit three notes with a block, in a pattern, as Ruth watched; Ruth waved her own blocks above the keys, arms flailing, and made an unpleasant, whining noise of protest when her efforts failed to yield any sort of noise at all from the xylophone.

Perfect for a headache.

He shrugged out of his coat, watching with slightly unfocused eyes as Sarah patiently struck the keys again, the child’s instrument loud and discordant even when played by an adult. Ruth flung her own blocks up in the air and reached for Sarah’s, and Sarah let her have them and stood, looking at Toby. Ruth waved Sarah’s blocks over the keys, without striking them, and squealed again.

Toby winced.

“Are you alright?” Sarah frowned, looking up at him.

He shrugged. “Headache.” She’d either get it or she wouldn’t. “Gonna wash up.”

She nodded and he went to grab a change of clothes from his room, but when he came back out on his way to the bathroom, she was waiting by his door with a glass of water and a handful of pills. He gulped them down and tried to smile. “Thanks.”

She was being all nice again, like he hadn’t even yelled at her.

Had she worried when he was gone all night?

Hot water felt good on his tired muscles, but the heat made his head spin, and then spin again when he reached to turn it down, and eventually he settled on “slightly too cold” rather than fighting it. It did help his head, running down and across his face and shoulders. He propped both hands against the wall under the faucet and let it flow.

Fucking Dave. This had all been his idea.

Fucking Sarah, driving him to it. Being so nice now.

Fucking Goblin King messing up his easy life without even knowing it.

Fucking Sara. He always drank more in company.

Fucking Sara. His dick jumped a little bit. _God_ but he’d needed that.

Fucking _Sarah_. No. No. Or if….

No.

Fucking back around to where he started from.

* * *

When he emerged from the bathroom, sometime after “slightly too cold” had turned into “actually icy,” the xylophone was put away and Sarah was in the kitchen, making mac and cheese. Ruth wasn’t present; she was probably napping. And now that he was paying attention, he could see, also, that all the books were gone, or at least not visible.

It was a start.

He leaned against the fridge, watching her, the steady pressure of the slightly-cool plastic mildly soothing, or maybe it was just the painkillers kicking in. Sarah’s motions at the stove were mesmerizing, spoon twisting in the pasta as she stirred in gloopy yellow cheese-stuff. She’d pulled her hair back in a messy bun, and her clothing was simple—just a T-shirt and jeans, bare feet. Comfortable. Cozy. At home. Beautiful.

Not quite everything he wanted, but right now, it seemed like enough.

“Feeling better?” Sarah gave the gloopy yellow pot a final stir and took it off the heat, reaching with the other hand to turn off the burner.

“A little.”

“Made you something mild.” She gestured at the pot, then nodded at the table. “Go sit.”

“Thanks.”

She brought him a bowl and another glass of water, and then retrieved some for herself. The bowl was full of little elbow noodles and cheese, warm and smooth and comforting.

“I’m sorry,” he said, after a few bites.

“You weren’t wrong.” She met his eyes briefly, then looked down to take another bite.

“I yelled,” he tried again. “I shouldn’t have.”

She didn’t answer that, and after a moment he went back to eating in silence. He rested his head in his hand and closed his eyes, focusing on the smooth texture of the pasta and the sweet-salty tang of the cheese. He ate slowly, and let time pass without pressure.

“I knew it would be hard, coming back.” Toby looked up at her words. She stabbed a bit at the leftovers in her bowl, and took a deep breath. “I thought I knew why, knew how. I thought I was prepared. There are so many things I didn’t think of. You’d think I’d’ve learned that by now, but….” She put the fork down and picked up her glass, draining it, and then turning the empty cup between her hands. She still hadn’t looked at him.

He swallowed and cleared his throat. “What didn’t you think of?”

“What do you think about love?”

He blinked. “What do I think?”

“Tell me.” She looked up and cocked her head slightly. “What does it mean to love someone?”

“I dunno.” He frowned, trying to think around his lingering headache. “It’s… it’s that fluttery feeling. Wanting to be around someone. Caring about what they care about.”

“Romantic love.” She nodded. “The kind of thing they write stories about.”

“Yeah! You know, overcomes all obstacles. Isn’t there something in the Bible? ‘Love never ends, love always triumphs’ or something like that?”

“Maybe.” Sarah shrugged. “I’ll tell you what, though: that kind of love is a lie. Happily ever after? It doesn’t exist.”

“But—“

“What, you think you just fall in love once, and stay fallen? Anyone who believes that is a fool.”

“But people do! Mom and Dad—“

“— _Choose_ to stay in love. Or stay together even if they aren’t. I don’t know them well enough to say. The point is, it isn’t enough to fall. You have to choose to stay.” She took another breath and shook her head, looking down again.

“Choose to stay?”

“When I first planned… _this_ …” she gestured around, indicating her presence, “I was grieving. Before Ciro, I was struggling… so much was different, and I didn’t have a place there. When he was with me I had purpose again. After…. Well, after, I was lost for a very long time. And I lost Jareth as well as myself. But time heals, even there where it is fluid, and I might have found my way back.”

Maybe it was the lingering hangover, or the sex, or the emotional purge of the last twenty-four hours, but she didn’t sound as pained as she usually did when talking about the Goblin King, and Toby, in turn, didn’t mind hearing about him as much as he usually did. He stayed quiet, afraid that if he spoke she would stop talking.

“But I’m doing what I need to do. I belong here, just as much as I belong there, even though he wouldn’t agree. And even though I still think that I have the right of it… when I left, I hurt him. I betrayed him. Even if he forgives me, he may never trust me again. And so, when it’s too much, I want to remember when it was simpler, the way we were with each other before Time and Magic complicated things. It gives me hope.”

So, was she saying that she saw more clearly, now? What did that mean?

“But you were right.” She looked up at him again. “I can’t be constantly looking back. I have you, and Ruth, and time here, and I shouldn’t spend that much time and emotional energy on something I don’t have control over. He’ll come or he won’t. I’m not going to sit around pining anymore.”

Instead of speaking, Toby pushed himself back from the table and stood, crossing the narrow kitchen space to take Sarah’s hands in his and pull her into an embrace. She went quietly, wrapping her arms around his waist, her head against his chest, and he put his cheek on her hair and held her close.

“You know I’ll always be here for you, right?” he said, after some time had passed, and then pressed a kiss to her hair.

“I know,” she answered. “I love you too.”

* * *

That night, he grabbed his pants to throw them in the wash—couldn’t wear them to work smelling like a club—and heard paper crinkle in the pocket. Reaching in, he found the slip of paper where Sara had written her number. He tossed the pants into the laundry basket and opened the paper as he turned for bed. The number looked genuine, not just something you fob off on an overnight guest to avoid awkward conversations.

He sat down on the bed, staring at the phone number. The area code was local, so she’d probably be around even when school wasn’t in session. The release of tension had been pretty damn fantastic, in the moment, and she didn’t seem the type who would be all clingy if he did get in touch. In fact, it might just be the most perfect chance that had ever fallen into his lap.

Except that just like Sarah’s wallowing in the past, it meant fooling himself, and not concentrating on the good that he had, in his relationship with Sarah. As much as his dick liked the idea of fucking someone regularly, and as much as parts of him wanted to be closer to Sarah than he was, sleeping with someone else would just complicate everything, even if it was casual on both sides. If he wanted to be all that Sarah needed, he had to be here with her as she moved forward, and she finally seemed willing to do that.

He yanked open the drawer on the nightstand Sarah had bought him after their move, crumpled the paper into a tight ball, and shoved it back into the the back of the drawer, behind the three novels he’d meant to read this year and the other detritus he’d managed to accumulate in the past few months. He shouldn’t text her.

He probably wouldn’t text her.

Probably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Toby is referencing the Ben Folds song "Zak and Sara" from his album Rockin' the Suburbs. "Sara spelled without an H was getting bored/on a PV amp in 1984/while Zak without a C tried out some new guitars/Playing Sara-with-no-h's favorite song." The chapter title is from the Aimee Mann song "Flame and Moth."
> 
> The Biblical quote that Toby is mangling is 1 Corinthians 13:4-8a: "Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails."


	14. And No Birds Sing

**Chapter Fourteen: And No Birds Sing**

_10,980 Days (December 26, 2012)_

A wished-away child, an infant girl, slept on Jareth’s chest as he lounged back in his throne. It had been a long time since a Runner had affected him so deeply, since he had regretted the lengths to which he must go, when a mortal lost the game. The child squirmed and made a sleepy noise, then relaxed again, and he stroked her back gently as he remembered his last conversation with her mother.

_"G-g-goblin King!" The surprise and fear in her eyes as he steps around the corner are quite gratifying, though he does prefer fear and awe to abject terror. He walks forward slowly, as she backs up, until she is pressed to the stone wall behind her. For a moment he remembers Sarah—"How are you enjoying my Labyrinth?"—but his mission here is different and this girl had nothing of his Sarah's beauty or character._

_Still, there is something about her. Her lip quivers as she fights her tears, but she blinks and meets his eyes as he stops to stand before her._

_"Hello, Kayla," he says softly, and hopes she did not notice the very brief pause while he sought her name. "Do you know why I am come?"_

_"I…" she trails off, then swallows firmly. "I don't know how long I've been here. Am I… am I out of time?" Drops of moisture gather at the corners of her eyes._

_"Your thirteen hours have elapsed," he confirms. "Do you know how far you have come?"_

_"Please, sir, your m-majesty, I…" she gives up, defeated. "Not far enough." One tear trails down her cheek, and he watches it, transfixed. Sarah cried the same way for Ciro: one tear at a time. One tear at a time until it burst like a dam, and nothing could be done. Suddenly he finds he feels sorry for the girl._

_"Your child is mine," he reminds her. "Nothing will change that. Do you know what happens now?”_

_“I go home,” she says dully. “I go home and know… she’s g-gone.” The tears are falling faster, her shoulders shaking with quiet, breathy sobs._

_“You will forget,” he replies gently. “You will know that things are not always what they seem, that the universe is greater than your science knows, but you will not remember the child.”_

_“No!” He clenches his jaw at her anguished cry. She is sobbing in earnest now. “Please. Please, sir. I know I don’t deserve her. I know I lost her. But please don’t make me forget her.”_

_“You shall have your dreams,” he answers. Her tears are almost admirable, now. “What else could you want?”_

_“Please… I was… I used to be different, before I was a mom.” She takes a deep breath, and meets his eyes fearfully. “I was… I was such an idiot. I want… I do want to be a kid again. I know I’m not ready to be a mom. But I don’t want to go back to being the person I was before. I want to remember the lesson, or I’ll just go and make the same mistakes again.”_

And for the first time in his rule, he had granted a loser’s request. It was, in a way, very like granting her dreams, after all. Her life would never be so carefree as it once had been, but neither would she repeat her past mistakes.

The baby sighed, snuggling into his chest, and he pulled her closer, savoring the contact. It was five thousand days, today, since Sarah had left him in the wake of Ciro’s Change. He had seen Sarah only rarely in that time: she had made it quite clear that “I miss you” was not sufficient justification to seek her out.

_He reclines in his bed, two days after her departure. The crystal in his hand shows Sarah, walking slowly around the Endless Corridor. Her face is marred with tear tracks, though her eyes are dry. She walks with one hand touching the inner wall; as he watches, she finds one of the hidden openings, steps in, looks both ways, and then steps back into the Corridor. Then, she stops, cocks her head, and turns slightly, and somehow her eyes seem to meet his, in spite of the distance._

_He cannot resist the pull of that contact, and Transports to her side in the next breath, stepping out of thin air to stand before her, one hand reaching out. She steps back, away, and it drops useless at his side._

_“Sarah—”_

_“I told you to leave me alone.”_

_“I saw you—”_

_“That means no watching me, too. I can tell you’re there.”_

_“Sarah, I only want—”_

_“I know. But you told me this would happen. And I told you what I need.”_

In days past, he would have already given the baby to the goblins; she was far too young for there to be any hope that she would turn out otherwise. Then, hundreds of years of loneliness, without contact with anyone remotely like himself, had accustomed him to living without contact with an equal. His time with Sarah had ended that, forever. Though he knew that someday she would return, and though he understood, in some part, why she needed time away, he missed her with every breath: her presence, her conversation, her touch.

This little baby would never fill that void. She would be a goblin tomorrow, or the next day; and even if she would not, she was not his Sarah. But it was enough just to hold her, for now, to touch this little piece of life Above.

The throne room was dark and quiet, but for the soft snores of goblins who had fallen asleep where they sat. A breathing silence; almost a waiting one. He closed his eyes.

_He walks, sometimes, to think, or to design new patterns for the Labyrinth’s puzzles; it would serve no one to base a puzzle on a myth so old that even the memory of the story is long since dead. He has been working, so that he does not think of Sarah, does not count the four hundred days since her departure as though they have been four thousand._

_And then he turns the corner, and she is there._

_She sits cross-legged on a dried-up and barren patch of glass, Ciro’s wooden owl balanced on her hand. She frowns, her brow furrowed, and leans forward, breathing out over the object. It twitches in her hand, then turns its head; the wooden wings spread, feathers extended, and it lifts from her hand, flying around the clearing. When it passes him, he reaches out, and it lands in his hand, digging its claws into his finger._

_“Jareth.”_

_“This is fascinating,” he says, lifting the tiny owl to examine it more closely. “How did you learn this?”_

_“The Labyrinth taught me. What are you doing here?”_

_“I did not seek you, Sarah.”_

_“I know.”_

_Cautiously, he approaches her, sitting across from her in the grass, their knees almost touching. The wooden owl on his hand clenches tight to his finger, then relaxes; its beak opens once, twice, and then it stills._

_“He would have loved this,” he says, quietly._

_“I know.” He holds it out to her and she takes it, their fingers barely brushing._

_“How are you, Sarah?”_

_“I will be at the center soon.” She looks at the Castle. “Then I have to get out again.”_

_She will not return when she reaches the Castle. He stands, and turns away, but then remembers something she said earlier. “The Labyrinth taught you?”_

_“I taught myself. It’s the same thing, in the end.”_

_She holds the carving out again, and he kneels and cups his hands around hers, holding still. Two minutes pass._

_“Will you come home?” He should not have asked—the answer is obviously no—but he wants to hear her say it._

_She shrugs and looks aside. “Someday.”_

He had not seen her since, but _that dwarf_ had told him, under some coercion, that she had emerged from the Longest Path some six hundred days later, and now stayed in a cabin she had built against the walls of the Labyrinth, a quarter of the way around from the dwarf and the Gate. She saw the dwarf rarely, and the fox rarer still; only the Rock Caller was a frequent visitor. He forced the dwarf to carry a note: _Will you come home?_ The reply returned, once again, said only, _Someday._ Still, he could sense her location, now, when he considered it, by the concentration of faeries and other such folk; she drew the lesser creatures of the Labyrinth in, moths to her flame.

He could not sense her directly, not since her Change. But he could imagine her, and often did, remembering the softness of her skin under his fingers, the heady taste of her kiss. The pinprick tickles of her hair as she leant over him, pleasuring him with her mouth. The sound of her step, on the stone floor, lighter and more even than any of his subjects. She was always present, in his imagination.

Always present in his imagination, yes, but suddenly he realized that the step he heard might not have been. He opened his eyes and she was there, in the doorway. She looked like a dream, like one wished into being, ghostly in a flowing white dress, her hair unbound.

He had dreamed of her so often that first he thought she must be a mirage, but no: that hardened sadness still tensed the corners of her mouth, and her eyes were clear, but stern. When he dreamed of her, she was happy, the easy peace of their early days restored.

 The baby remained, a warm weight on his chest, and Sarah’s eyes held him pinned. He could not, would not move. She crossed the room in measured steps, and so easily did she avoid the sleeping goblins that it seemed that a path had always been there, just for her.

 When she reached him, she knelt, bringing them level. Her hand rose, and came to rest against the head of the sleeping little girl, caressing gently. He could not tear his eyes from her face, and so he saw, as she gazed at the infant, the minute softening in her expression, the gentling of the harsh lines at the corners of her mouth, the wetness in her eyes.

 “She is beautiful,” she breathed, and, though sad and quiet, her voice resounded in his heart like the sweetest music. He could not resist: he reached up, with one hand, to brush her hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear as his thumb trailed across her cheek. “I heard her come. I saw the runner, even.”

 That was a surprise, though clearly Sarah had offered the girl little or no material assistance. It was more surprising, actually, that the girl had not asked any questions of him about the other who shared his kingdom. Perhaps she had been warned off. But then again, perhaps she had merely been uncurious. Curiosity was necessary to the Labyrinth, and the girl had progressed hardly at all.

 Sarah’s hand brushed his as she stroked the child again, tenderly, and when she repeated the motion, he caught her, twining their fingers together. She looked up at him, then, meeting his eyes for the first time since she had entered the room. He could see longing in her eyes, and also resignation.

 “Sarah,” he began, but more words refused to come.

 “I know, Jareth. I wasn’t going to ask that we try what we did with Ciro, and it has nothing to do with the fear that you’d say no.”

 Relief filled him, and he clenched her hand tightly, regretting, now, the sleeping weight that made it more difficult to turn to face her. Sarah solved his dilemma, freeing her hand to lift the child away, and he sat up straighter as she did, facing her and framing her with his bent knees.

“Stay with me tonight.” He leaned forwards, cupping her face in his hands.

“Yes.”

The word was quiet, not passionate, but he could not care. He leaned in and kissed her, swiftly, gently, then ran his hands down her upper arms, lifting her by the elbows as she stood. When he stepped away from the throne, she bent, and laid the child on the seat, then paused for a moment, frowning down at her.

“She will be well, Sarah,” he said softly, taking her hand.

“I know she will,” she answered, in the same tone, and her fingers tightened in his.

He gave her a little tug, and she stepped to his side, the fabric of her skirt whispering around her ankles and brushing against his leg. He walked the Stairs almost without thought, a mounting urgency lengthening his stride, and she stayed with him, hands clasped tightly, one in purpose. _Sarah, Sarah_. Her name thundered in his head like a heartbeat.

They reached the top of the tower, and he passed her open door without even thinking of it: she would be with him tonight. He opened his own door and pulled her inside, then wrapped his arms around her and drew her close. She came into his arms with a little cry, holding him tightly and burying her face in his neck, her hands fisting in his hair, in the back of his shirt.

“Sarah, I…”

“Just kiss me.”

She acted along with him, meeting him in the middle, and the joy of kissing her again, after so many, many days, was so intense as to be nearly overwhelming. She was pliant in his arms, passionate fire and harsh desire, and absolutely delicious. He had thought he would want to take his time, when this moment came, seduce her slowly, draw out their passion and their connection, reaffirm all their old affection; instead her fingers were pulling at his shirt and he was lost in her passionate heat, mind clouded by the pulse of her desire. He pushed her dress from her shoulders as his clothing melted under her touch, and found her bare beneath; he caught her up with a growl, driving her back towards his bed and nearly tripping over her dress as he pulled her free of its discarded folds.

“Jareth!” She cried out his name as he fastened his mouth to the curve of her neck, and he growled approval into her skin. _Mine, always_. And they were both naked now and no, there would be no long buildup, there would be only this, her hands together, above her head, held by one of his, his other lining them up, plunging himself home despite her harsh exhale, despite the tight pulling at the edge of her opening where maybe she had not quite been prepared. But then she arched, and dug her heels into his buttocks, and he could feel, already, that her body was catching up with her mind, their connection easing with his every thrust until every tiny, painful catch was converted to pure wet pleasure.

He released her wrists to hook both her knees over his elbows, then claimed them again, holding her to the bed as his thrusts increased in tempo. Sarah’s eyes fluttered closed as she moaned her pleasure, and then open again, meeting and holding his as she did what she could to match his pace from her restrained position. Just so, now, here, ultimately: his, _his_ , forever, submitted and thrilling to it. Sarah would come back to him, would complete him; they would be whole, again, together, and closer than before. _When passion wanes, for wane it shall_ …. But a time of waxing was upon them, he could see it in the twist of her neck, in her open, panting mouth, in her heavy-lidded eyes; he could hear it in the little breathy moans she made with each thrust, smell in the light sheen of sweat that glistened in the hollow of her throat, feel it in the tension of the bones in her wrist and the way her body tightened around him. How long had it been, since she was this responsive? Before Ciro, perhaps. This was passion he had not realized had been lost.

Her head thrashed as his angle changed slightly, and he switched to short, sharp, deep thrusts, hardly pulling out before pressing back in, knowing it would send her over the edge into bliss all the more quickly. Her little moaning pants grew louder, then crescendoed into words: “yes, yes, yes, yes” in time with his thrusts. Her pleasure was building quickly now, tighter and tighter, spiraling higher, his to control, his to command, and his own end would come with hers.

 _Together. Always_.

And there it was, that flutter, that clench, the release he had been waiting for all these lonely years: she tensed and trembled, her body holding his tightly, and his grunt of relief was lost under her wail of pleasure as, with a few final hard thrusts, his orgasm swept through them both.

Her eyes had closed at that last moment, and they fluttered open slowly as he released her wrists and legs, lowering himself over her gently and dropping a kiss onto her open mouth. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, bringing him closer, their bodies still joined. Then, with a gasping exhale, she buried her face in his neck and burst into tears.

“Hush, Sarah.” Unsurprised, but still concerned, he cradled her close, pressing kisses into her hair. He felt it too: so much had passed between them, so much tension built up; it was natural that sexual release should lead to this cleansing grief. She would be the better for it. _They_ would be the better for it. He could feel tears in his own eyes as well, though none quite daring enough to fall.

“Jareth.” She pulled him closer, her tears slowing, though not ceasing. Snaking his arms under her back, he rolled them, their bodies separating, and held her to his side as she cuddled into him. Her hand clenched against his chest as he stroked her back.

“Sleep, beloved,” he whispered, when her broken sobs had changed to whimpers. “Sleep, and come home to me.”

She took a breath and snuggled closer before she answered, “Always.”

* * *

 

Sarah was gone, when he woke.

Not simply _out_ , not simply in her room, not in the Castle or in the Labyrinth. Not summoned by his anger, or his magic, or his frantic calling. Not visible in his crystals, and lost, as she had been since her Change, to his King’s sense of his Kingdom, not even a collection of his subjects revealing her location.

She was gone.

_There’s nothing for me, here._

She had said that to him once, long ago, in those early days before she knew she loved him. Those early days when he had held himself so carefully, afraid to send her away.

How had she found a way to leave? Had she somehow learned to go Above? He had never shown her: they could not go frivolously; he did not desire that she have the power to leave; and she had never asked.

She must have found a way. The alternative—that she had ended her life—was not to be considered.

Last night she had come to him, passionate and strong, demanding and sweet, and he had thought that perhaps the worst of grief was behind her. That perhaps, now, there could be a return to greater closeness. He did not wish for what they had had before Ciro; though there had been joy then, there had also been struggle, and Sarah’s sadness. Now, changed as she was by the Labyrinth and her experiences, that volatile time would not return, and he was glad of it. Instead, they would find a greater harmony, and help each other more. They would Dream together.

And had she not promised him? _Always_.

But she was gone.

He stepped out of thin air behind _that dwarf_ , black armor coalescing around him. “Hogwart!”

The creature jumped improbably high and completely missed the fairy he was trying to blast with his little gun, then stumbled as he turned back towards his King. “Yer majesty!”

“Where is she?”

“Where is—“

“Sarah. _Where is she_?”

The creature blinked at him blankly. “She ain’t in her house?”

“She must have told you her plans. Where has she gone?”

“I ain’t seen Sarah fer weeks!”

The truth was plain in the creature’s eyes, and he had betrayed enough weakness before it. He tightened his mouth, collected himself, and reappeared near the little cottage she had built, and which he had seen only from a distance, as he flew his borders. He pushed the door open without knocking and found it empty, the bed in the corner neatly made, one comfortable chair next to a small fireplace, and a spotless kitchen alcove, in which a large wooden table seemed to have grown straight out of the floor.

A book lay open on the table; it was one of hers, a journal and notebook of ideas. She had never made a distinction between the two, as he once had, though it had been centuries since he had kept a diary of any kind. He tried to turn the pages back, to discover the age of the book, or the entry, but to turn them was impossible; she had spelled them in place. Perhaps the pages turned by her hand alone. Still, he could read the writing on the open page. He scanned it quickly, hoping that there might be some indication of what had happened to her.

> _so empty when Ciro fell. I closed myself off. The Longest Path taught me better; it changed me again. I remember my purpose now. The reason for all of this._
> 
> _This Living Hand, now warm and capable  
>  _ _Of earnest grasping would, if it were cold  
>  _ _And in the icy silence of the tomb  
>  _ _So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights,  
>  _ _That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood  
>  _ _That in my veins red life might stream again  
>  _ _And thou be conscience-calmed; see here it is—  
>  _ _I hold it towards you._
> 
> _That is Keats, and I have always found it poignant. “A greater love hath no man than this,” worded as a lover; my Jareth, this I do for you. “See here it is—I hold it towards you.” “It is a crystal, nothing more.” The posture speaks what words do not. This was the choice you gave me, that was no choice at all: that I must pour out my heart’s blood to keep this world alive, for you; though not for you alone, but for all. When I returned I was too hopeful. I was too proud. But I refuse to be beaten down by despair. I refuse to sit in the Eyrie and watch as the world crumbles around us, though it take centuries; to pass you darkened dreams and hope that in your hands one might touch a heart. I refuse to rest in your arms and close the shutters and simply love you, blind to your faults and lost in a selfish dream. No. You asked more of me. You asked more of yourself. Where I have not found victory in the way I expected, I shall find it in another, and you shall not stop me._
> 
> _I remember another poem, which I think is also Keats, that I can’t remember in its entirety… it begins, “When I have fears that I may cease to be, before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain.” I remember that it is about being afraid to die before fulfilling your life’s work. It reminds me of Jareth, because his work is never done. Only now it is set aside, now it is lost; where has he gone, the man who demanded that I not return? Or did he ever mean it? Can he grow? There are sculptures in the Labyrinth, tricks of rock which resemble him, which I met so often as I walked the Longest Path. Shall these be one day all that remains, before they follow him into shadow? “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone stand in the desert… My name is Ozymandias, king of kings.” Did he create them? Did Dareios? Did Latramys? Did the stone itself?_
> 
> _It is not that he has no legacy. It is that he_

The writing stopped, there, midsentence, as though her attention had been suddenly called away, and then continued, after a brief empty space.

> _I felt it: the call. This may be my chance. Jareth, if you read this, follow at your peril: I go to accomplish that deed for which you have never dared to hope._

He looked up from the book, dread in his heart, senses reaching out to the Castle, to the goblins that crowded the Throne Room, whose numbers should have increased by one. They had not. He Transported, in the next moment, to verify with his eyes the truth of his King’s sense.

The child, rare and essential link to the world Above, was gone.

He turned toward the throne, boot flying out in a vicious kick at whichever goblin had been unlucky enough to have chosen that path as his resting place, and flung himself into the chair, displacing another goblin who had been sitting on the back.

Sarah had betrayed him. It was no coincidence that she had come to him last night; he had believed she did it for love, but it had all been a lie. It had been nothing more than a distraction, putting him off his guard so that she could accomplish her true goal, and like a fool he had fallen for it.

She had not come for him; she would not come back to him. She had come for the wished-away baby, and had taken it Above.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poems mentioned are “This Living Hand” and “When I Have Fears” by John Keats, and “Ozymandias” by Percy Bysshe Shelley. “This Living Hand” may not be quoted exactly (I am certain it is missing punctuation, if nothing else); this was done intentionally, because Sarah is recalling the words from memory. The chapter title is also from Keats, from “La belle dame sans merci.”
> 
> The other quote is biblical, John 5:13: “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”


	15. As the Grains of Dust

_Friday, July 22, 2011, 6:34 AM_

Sara had been a mistake.

Not the sex; that part had been fucking fantastic. But playing the fantasy… well, there had been some vague, drunken notion that he'd be getting Sarah out of his system somewhere safe, that after he'd had her in his dreams he'd be able to just be her brother.

Not so much.

If anything, it was harder now that he had indulged. It used to be that the  _wanting_  was just a simmer at the back of his thoughts, that he could quiet with the sort of hug or brief cuddle that Sarah usually welcomed, and that wasn't so unusual between normal siblings. Now it was boiling and even boiling over, so that he dreamt of her every night, and found himself reaching for her in the morning, when dreams of her in his arms spilled over into his waking thoughts.

And, more often of late, kept him up at night.

So yeah, Sara had been a mistake.

And his fucking tie would not fucking… tie.

"Toby?" There was a knock at his door. "Breakfast is almost ready. You okay?"

"Just one of those mornings," he yelled back, yanking at the lopsided, too-short knot at his neck. Maybe once he'd had some coffee. As long as it was done by the time he got to the office, it would be okay. He turned and opened the door.

Sarah stood there, still, on the other side, waiting. Ruth was cuddled up against her shoulder, watching him quietly with her thumb in her mouth.

"Hey," Sarah said, and smiled. "I thought I'd bring you some coffee." She swiped a hand through the air and handed him the cup.

He regarded it warily. "I thought you told me—"

"Brewed in the machine and moved from the kitchen counter to my hand!" she laughed. "I would never subject you to my conjured crap, don't worry." She snaked her freed hand around his waist and tugged him close, rising up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. "Especially not on your birthday."

"You—"

"Of  _course_  I remember." She squeezed him again. "I'll have you know, I missed out on a very important day of wandering around the park acting all dramatic, for you."

"You… what?"

She rolled her eyes and let him go, leading the way towards the kitchen. "It's not like they took me to the hospital with them. But I also wasn't allowed to leave the house—absolute  _tragedy_  when you're a dramatic fourteen-year-old who doesn't understand why Daddy had to go get married again anyway."

"Sounds like torture," he said dryly, as he followed, the coffee starting to work its way into his system.

"Teenagers are hormonal idiots," Sarah agreed, bending down to open the oven and glance inside. She shut it again and turned back to him, and Toby suddenly noticed that he'd been smelling bacon for a while, in addition to the eggs sizzling in a skillet on the stovetop. They didn't often do bacon. She turned back to him, hitching Ruth up her hip as she did. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I know you don't remember—you wouldn't remember even if my going to the Labyrinth hadn't altered your memories—but it took me way too long to start to really love you. I wish I'd loved you from the start."

On the counter, the toaster made a loud popping sound, and started smoking.

"Crap!" Sarah turned towards it. "I could've sworn I'd fixed that."

"Maybe it's something new?" Toby put down his coffee and took Ruth from her arms. "Shall I put her in her high chair?"

"Yes, thanks." Sarah was already standing by the smoking appliance. She waved her hands around it, and the smoke started to clear, funneling neatly in a steady stream towards the open window in the living room. Carefully, she pulled a slice free: it was charred black.

"No toast, I guess."

"Don't worry about it. Do you need help?"

"No. Oh! The eggs!" She ran back to the stovetop and gave them a stir and a turn. "It'd be even worse if I ruined two-thirds of your breakfast!" With one more stir, she dished them out onto the plate, then pulled the bacon from the oven and added it to the plate. "Bacon and eggs, at least!"

He smiled up at her, and grasped the hand that had held the plate briefly when she started to move away.

"Thanks."

Sarah smiled at him, and squeezed his hand.

* * *

Toby's phone rang just as he was stepping out of the elevator at the end of the workday. "Hello?"

"I have a surprise for you," Sarah said, without preamble. Toby hitched his bag up on his shoulder and crossed to the doors, blinking in the sunlight of the summer afternoon. Sensing another body behind him, he held it open, and then realized as the man came through that it was one of the company higher-ups, not his direct supervisor but a level or two above. What was his name?

"Thanks, son," the man said, giving him a nod, and Toby nodded back.

"What's the surprise?" he said into the phone as he released the door.

"Look up." He did, and Sarah was standing across the street, looking lovely in a flowy blue summer dress, waving at him and smiling, Ruth in a stroller at her side. He clicked his phone off and pocketed it, and then stopped to wait at the crosswalk, waving back as he did.

"Is that your family?" It was the executive from earlier, also waiting to cross.

"Yeah." Toby smiled. It felt good to claim them that way: uncomplicated. Sarah was always imposing rules about what he could and couldn't say, so that she didn't have to lie, but that much was wonderful, and true.

"They're beautiful," he said, giving an approving nod. "I like to see young people settling down and having children. Good for you." The light changed, and they headed across together. "I'll keep it in mind."

Toby blinked. "Thank you, sir!"

"Keep up the good work, Williams!" He continued away down the street.

"What was that?" Sarah slid her arm around his waist, giving him a little half-hug.

"Higher-up. And maybe a hint of a promotion?" He hugged her back. "Thanks for that. He thought you were beautiful."

She blinked at him. "What do I have to do with it?"

"Never mind. So, why are you here?"

"I thought we'd celebrate." Sarah turned the stroller and started down the street. "I brought dinner, and there's a concert at a park nearby that I thought we might both enjoy."

He frowned down at her. "What sort of concert?"

"Video game music." The fuck…? But Sarah hated video games; she always found something else to do when he was playing. He must have looked as surprised as he felt, because Sarah looked up at him and laughed. "I overhear it when you're playing. A lot of it sounds like film scores, at least—it's orchestral. And I thought you'd like it too. Apparently more people are doing it; this is just a student group, but there are groups that have played in really big venues."

"You don't have to convince me!" Toby smiled at her. "It's a beautiful evening for a picnic; the concert is just a bonus." It was his birthday, and his boss had noticed, and Sarah was at his side: he could ask nothing more.

* * *

At the park, Sarah reached into the pocket on the back of the stroller and pulled out a blanket far too large to have actually fit into that space. He'd seen her pull that trick often enough at home, but he still laughed as he took one corner, helping her spread it out on the shadier side of the lawn. Other families had spreads nearby, children running between the blankets, and Sarah let Ruthie free of her stroller. She wasn't walking quite yet—last time Toby had remembered to ask, Sarah had said Ruthie was almost eleven months old—but she crawled industriously across the blanket until she got to the grass, and then lay down in it, pulling at the blades with her fingers and babbling to herself.

"You must be the envy of every mother in the park, with that trick," he said, as Sarah pulled a small picnic basket from beneath the stroller.

She laughed. "I told you I'd met up with that mothers' group? After the fourth person asked me my secret, I had to start carrying a bigger diaper bag."

"How's that going, anyway?" He sat down, legs stretched out, and loosened his tie.

"Easier than I thought," she said, reaching into the basket. She produced a bottle of wine (rather too large for the basket) and two glasses. "There's a pretty regular group, but they only ever talk about their children's milestones, so it's been easy to just blend in."

Toby took the bottle and glasses, and by the time he had poured one, Sarah had set up a tray on little legs. "Where did that come from?" he asked, as he set it down.

"I made it," she answered. "Added legs to a tray I found at the thrift shop. I've seen one like it before, and it seemed really useful."

"Well, you're really handy for a picnic, especially since you pulled out the real glasses," Toby said as he poured the second. Sarah looked up at him and smiled, and then shook her head and looked away as though embarrassed. Onstage, the musicians filed on.

"I'm not really sure what to expect from this," Sarah said. "There's no program or anything." She rummaged in the basket again, and pulled out thin-sliced meats, cheeses, and a loaf of sliced bread. Just then, the conductor stepped onto the stage and struck up the first tune.

To Toby's surprise, Sarah started giggling even before he himself had placed the music. She put a hand to her mouth as she swallowed a bite of food, and then exclaimed, "Sonic? Really?"

Toby nodded, having placed the music himself. "Not what you were expecting?"

"I told you, I was thinking of the orchestral scores. This is fun!"

"I'm surprised you even know it."

"Are you kidding?" Ruth, bored with the grass, began to crawl away, and Sarah reached out and snagged her by the edge of her overalls, dragging her back. She settled her in her lap, and offered her a small crust of bread. "A guy I dated in college had a Sega Genesis. Sonic was the height of cool, unless you were into Nintendo."

"Weren't most people into Nintendo?"

She nudged him with her shoulder. "Shut up, you."

He took another sip of wine, watching as Ruth waved and squirmed out of Sarah's grip. "I was just surprised that you knew any games at all. You never seemed interested, at home."

"I like narrative," she shrugged. "Shoot this, shoot that, that isn't narrative." Sonic ended, and an orchestral piece began.

"That's not always true," he said, cocking his head to try to identify the new music. It sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. Ruth made another break for freedom, and Sarah grabbed her back again, this time reaching into the stroller to produce a toy. Was this—ah! Yes, it was. "How's this for narrative. Young prince returns home from school to find that there is a strange disease taking over the kingdom. He tries to help people, but soon it becomes apparent that he has to quarantine certain areas and kill infected civilians—he has to make the hard choices to save the whole country. Eventually he follows the corruption to its source, where he takes up a magical weapon, believing it will give him the power he needs to defeat the evil sorcerer, only for it to corrupt his soul, making him into the very thing he once hated."

Sarah gave him a dubious look. "That kind of sounds like Darth Vader."

Toby laughed aloud, and thought back, and, yes, Sarah had been spared the prequel trilogy. "For all the reading that you do, there are some serious holes in your cultural education. There are three more Star Wars movies. And, I don't really think it's fair to say that only books have narrative."

"And movies," Sarah added. "Well, some of them."

"Television does too—though probably more now than in the late 90s. And so do some video games, like the one I was just describing."

She nodded. "Is that what this music is from?"

"Warcraft III," Toby answered, "or, well, the music is probably from World of Warcraft. The story I just told is from Warcraft III. They're different games, but set in the same world." A new tune struck up. "And this is another one you would like," he said, recognizing the music immediately. "Dragon Age. A new one came out earlier this year. The game's half narrative—your choices, as a character, influence the way the story goes. On a few pre-determined paths, true, but it really does."

"I like the music," Sarah said, and looked over at him. "When we get home, will you show me?"

He smiled. "Absolutely."

* * *

Sarah pushed the stroller gently as they walked the paths through the familiar park near their apartment, headed home. It was just past sunset, and Ruthie was drowsing, slumped in the seat, as Sarah steered carefully, avoiding unnecessary bumps in the path. "Did you have a good time?" she asked, and smiled up at him.

"Yeah," he slung his arm around her shoulders. "Thank you."

"I'm glad." She leaned in, and he tightened his grip.

_"_ Sarah, I…."  _You have a lovely family_. Don't mention it. You can't mention it. Happy as she had been these past few months, he didn't want to mar the day by setting her off. But really, it wasn't as though the sentiment was untrue. They may not be a family in the traditional sense, the way his boss had meant, but they were still  _family_. And ultimately, that mattered more.

He turned his head, and pressed a kiss to her temple. "Thank you. Just, thank you."

Sarah went stiff and still under his arm.

"Sarah?" Had he done something wrong? Taken it too far? He almost apologized, but what would he be sorry for? Nothing had been unusual, had it? Or had she finally noticed…. "Is something wrong?"

She shoved the stroller at him and he caught it reflexively as she ducked out from under his arm, turning away. At the same moment, he felt a cold wind, out of place in the sultry summer heat, tickle the back of his neck.

"Sarah—" He kept a hand on the stroller but turned his body to follow hers, expecting something to be seriously wrong. Instead, he saw Sarah embracing an unknown man, arms tight around him, her face pressed to his throat, body moulded to his. But the man did not seem to return her affection: he stood stiffly, head bowed to look at her, his hands resting lightly on her hips.

The Goblin King. It had to be.

He wasn't as tall as Toby had expected. Somehow Sarah's vague descriptions had managed to conjure some terrifying giant, but he was of a height with Toby himself, a few inches taller than Sarah. At first, Toby felt better. He was just a guy, after all. What the hell did Toby have to fear? Plus, he looked fucking weird. His clothes were oddly outdated, looking like a cross between an English costume drama and that singing movie with John Travolta. His hair stood up off his head in a weird, wild style that no earthly hair could manage. His eyelids were painted—nevermind, actually  _pigmented_ —the same way Sarah's were, sparkly lids rising to eyebrows that swooped off like a Vulcan's. In short, he looked like an insane glam rock wannabe, forty years too late for glory. What the hell did Sarah see in this guy, anyway?

But then the man raised his eyes to look at Toby, and… he had thought Sarah's looked odd, looked old. These eyes were ancient enough to drown in, and furious.

But what the hell did he have to be angry about? Well, except Sarah running away from him… and if he didn't know who Toby was, and he had probably seen Toby kiss her, and… well, fuck.

Sarah pulled away, just a little, and whispered something, and the man looked back at her, freeing Toby from the spell of his gaze. Toby shook his head sharply, once, because fuck if he was going to be  _afraid_  of the fucking Goblin King.

At least, he wasn't going to show it.

Sarah twined her hand with his and pulled him towards Toby. Toby steeled himself, but as they stopped in arm's reach of him, he found it had been pointless: it wasn't just his eyes. There was an aura of danger spreading around him like a shadow, and he clenched his fingers on the handles of Ruth's stroller to keep himself from trembling.

A little wrinkle appeared between Sarah's brows, and she looked back at the Goblin King. She released his hand, and stepped slightly towards Toby, standing exactly in the middle between the two men.

"Jareth," she said, her voice formal but a little nervous, "you remember my brother, Toby." Toby had thought the hostile attitude would decrease, once the man knew the relationship—there was no way a stranger could know his secret—but instead, the cold blue eyes sharpened, and the man's oddly flat lips twisted into a brief, malicious little half-smile before settling back into a neutral expression.

When the Goblin King made no move to speak, or even move, Sarah spoke again, her voice retaining that frosty politeness. "Toby, His Majesty, Jareth, the Goblin King." She put her hand to the stroller, turning it fully towards the man, and Toby was struck with the sudden urge to stop her, to snatch Ruthie away, to keep her safe, far from this otherworldly being, this child-snatcher, this sorcerer. "And Jareth, this is Ruth."

The Goblin King's eyes went to the child, and Toby caught, briefly, the first true expression he had seen from the man: his eyes widened, very slightly, and he bent both knees to look her full in the face, then turned to look up at Sarah, wonder and calculation warring in his gaze. Her lips turned up, just a little, as she met his eyes, and she nodded once.

"Impressive," he said softly, as he rose to his feet, his eyes shuttered once more. Impressive? She was just a kid. A great kid, one Toby had come to care for more than he'd ever expected, but just a kid.

"Jareth—" Sarah began.

"We will not have that conversation in the street," he said, cutting her off, his voice still oddly lacking in inflection.

"I… no, we won't," she agreed. "This way."

Sarah set off at a brisk walk, no longer trying to keep Ruth asleep, and the Goblin King stalked at her side, leaving Toby to follow. Which was fucking rude; what right did they have to treat him like that? Especially Sarah? Hadn't he been everything she needed, the past seven months? How dare she turn her back on him the second her  _ex-lover_  showed up?

Plus, the anger felt  _so much better_  than abject terror, and that was definitely lurking. The Goblin King's aura of menace hadn't diminished when he turned away any more than it had with the introduction, and it wasn't just Toby: passers-by ducked into storefronts or crossed the street as their strange little group came near, and the first streetlight they passed exploded with a loud  _pop_. Sarah turned her head, only slightly, and the next only flickered, but stayed on.

And they still hadn't looked back

Sarah still didn't care.

The two blocks left to the apartment had never seemed so long.

* * *

Ruth woke a bit and started fussing as they got into the building's elevator, probably as a result of so very much oozing malice contained in one small space. The Goblin King's intensity had not diminished, but all it did, the longer it lasted, was piss Toby off. And now it was affecting Ruth, who Sarah loved, who he loved, and that  _wasn't fair_. Couldn't this guy turn it off? Couldn't he just be decent and let the kid be? Hadn't he been a father of sorts to Sarah's first kid? Fuck fear. Fear accomplished shit. Anger got things done.

The fussing had turned to full-on wailing by the time the elevator arrived at their floor, and Toby stalked out first, keys in hand, to open the door. The Goblin King followed on his heels, walking too close, and Toby wanted to turn around and punch him in the face.

He wanted to even more so when Sarah came in with Ruthie sobbing on her hip and the stroller dragged awkwardly in the other hand: he should have fucking helped with the thing, but he'd been distracted, and that was the fault of who again? Oh, right, the  _fucking Goblin King_. Fucking making a mess of everything, once again.

Sarah looked harried now, as she dumped the stroller in the corner and came fully into the room. She stopped at the side of the Goblin King and opened her mouth, but he spoke first.

"Quiet her," he said. "You have five minutes."

Sarah looked for a moment as if she would argue, but then she nodded, went to her room, and closed the door. Ruth's cries stopped abruptly when it closed, the silence spells built into the walls taking effect, and Toby and the Goblin King were alone.

Toby watched the man he had every reason to dislike. To have taken his sister out of the world—to have denied him her company—to even now think to come between them; who did he think he was? The anger was coming easier now. Pompous ass couldn't even keep her happy, that's why she came Above. She had to sneak around just to get what she wanted. And she'd come to him, and they had been happy, these past months. He did his best to keep his breathing calm, but he had never had much success at mastering his face. His eyes darted towards the door where Sarah had disappeared, but from the way she had accepted the Goblin King's orders (and why the hell would she obey so quickly?), she would take the time he had ordered her to take.

Or she would run. Fuck, would she? And there was the goddamn fear again.

The Goblin King stepped towards him, then, like a cat stalking prey. Toby stood straight; he would not be intimidated—or at least, he refused to  _look_  intimidated. This creature from another world could not be predicted, but he had no intention of simply accepting whatever the man said.

"You are in love with her." The man's head tilted, his strange eyes glittering. His voice was deadly soft.

Fuck. This was not what he had been expecting. "Of course I love her," Toby scoffed. "She's my sister."

"I did not say you love her," the man replied, a knowing smirk stealing across his mouth. "I said you are  _in love_  with her. It will do you no good to lie to me; I can see the truth in your face." His eyes narrowed. "But it is for nothing. She is mine."

"Yours, you say?" He wouldn't stand down. Fuck the instinct telling him this was dangerous. Sarah had come to him; she had fled this fucking Goblin King. "You say she's yours, but she came to me." Was that a flicker, in the other man's face? "She chose me. In fact," he pressed, "she chose me  _twice_."

He had been standing against the wall, but now, without warning, the Goblin King moved, preternaturally fast. One arm pressed to Toby's chest; the other came up, the hand wrapping around his throat, and suddenly, he found himself at the very edge of breath. He grabbed the arms that held him, and tried his best to pull one away, but he might sooner have moved stone.

Oh,  _fuck_.

"Sarah will hate you if you hurt me," he rasped. The leather of the man's glove was oddly soft, though the hand inside was iron.

At this, the man laughed, a low, malicious, knowing sound. "Hate me? She will be angry, perhaps, but she and I have forever to forgive each other. However, I find that instead of simply demonstrating my superior strength, it would amuse me to offer you a choice." His smirk widened, and Toby found to his dismay that confining arms were no longer necessary; he was pinned by the man's eyes, as surely as if he had been bound.

"A—a choice?"

"A choice. Either I will hit you—and if you think I have hurt you thus far, you know nothing—or you will listen to something I am very much inclined to share with you. In offering the choice at all, I will have you know that I demonstrate uncommon generosity."

"Generosity?" Fuck. His voice was trembling. Goddamn traitor.

"Indeed." The man's voice was almost a drawl. "Make your decision."

Toby wondered what the man might have to tell him, but the man already knew his secret; what more could happen? He considered, also, the strength of the arm that held him, the weight of power that overwhelmed their modest living room, and knew there was only one answer.

"I'm not afraid of anything you might say to me."

"But you do fear that I might hurt you, physically?" Fuck. He hadn't meant to let that slip. He hadn't meant to admit it to himself! "But oh," the man continued, "how like your sister you are, just now. 'Words, I can handle,' she said to me once, but she found the words in question to be the most difficult words she had spoken for some time."

He loosened his hand, slightly, and Toby gasped, against his will, as his airflow returned to normal. But then he leaned in, his mouth nearly touching Toby's ear, and Toby found himself transfixed once more.

"I know you want her," he said, his voice low. "You have wanted her almost from the start. You wish, oh, how you wish, to see those lovely eyes close, as you caress her, to taste those full lips, to feel her gasp with delight at your oh-so-skillful invasion. Every day you stand near her, you smell her scent, you long to twist your fingers in that beautiful hair and…  _pull_ … and taste, and touch. You lie in your room at night and hate yourself, because your world tells you this is wrong, but still you lie there and imagine you can hear her breathe. You sleep on one side of the bed, and pretend that she will share it with you, that she has just stepped out for a moment." He laughed, again, that same low, sinister intimacy. "You are aroused just thinking of it."

And, oh god, it was true.

"But I do not think to torture you by speaking only of your paltry fantasies," the Goblin King continued. "I tell you, rather, that  _I know_  what she tastes like, her lips, her breasts, her—" he licked his lips— " _arousal_." The word was nearly a growl. "I have pleased her, more than she has been pleased by any other man and more times than your pathetic body could handle. I have brought her to heights your human mind cannot imagine. She has screamed my name, and cried it, and gasped it, and sighed it, until she begged for mercy, until she could take no more. And then, when finally I let her rest, she did the same to me. Over, and over, and over. I could give you the details of each exquisite moment, of each tender caress, of each loving confidence, of each fierce battle, but I fear even years would not let me enumerate them all in the detail they deserve. My Sarah is a woman of passion, beyond the woman of your fantasies.

"And she is  _my_  Sarah, and she always will be. And tonight she will come to you, and look at you with those green eyes you find so beguiling, and beg you to watch the child, and you will find yourself unable to say her nay. But you will know, as you ready for bed, and neglect half the mattress, and hope for her presence, that she will never, ever come. That in the privacy of her room—and I assure you, you will hear  _nothing_ —it is my hands that will caress her, my tongue that will taste her, my body that will claim her, again, and again. It is I who will feel her hands, her lips, kissing, touching, caressing, sucking, until we exhaust each other. And though you will do your best to think of other things, tonight,  _you will fail_." He released Toby, finally, and stepped away, moving to Sarah's door with the assurance of a man confident of his welcome.

"As it has been some time, for her," he said, over his shoulder, almost casually, "you should plan to keep the child until well into the morning."

Slowly, though he fought it, Toby's knees gave out, and he slid to the floor, stunned, his eyes on the door where the fucking Goblin King had disappeared.  _Happy fucking birthday to me._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musical inspiration for this chapter was drawn from the Video Game Orchestra, Video Games Live, Play! a Video Game Symphony, and a few other smaller but similar groups. 
> 
> The chapter title is from Ovid's Metamorphoses.


	16. Like a Dance

_Friday, July 22, 2011, 9:02 PM_

Jareth opened the door through which Sarah had disappeared, and when indeed he found her inside—she had not fled—he had to hold tightly against the impulse to sigh in relief. There would be no need to chase; she stood firm, against him, the child clutched in her arms like a shield. The little girl was asleep, her face relaxed, her head pillowed on Sarah's shoulder; as he took in the scene, she stirred, slightly, and Sarah drew her closer.

The wisps of hair on the child's head were light brown, not Sarah's chocolate; the cherub face, relaxed in sleep, had its own sweetness, but the child was not hers. He could sense it better, now that he was thinking clearly, the truth of what he had first sensed in the park. This was the child wished away, the child she had stolen. She was older, now.

Sarah, holding a healthy child, safe and secure, no interference needed. Had it been his child, it would have been a dream. But she had left him; this was not to be.

"Give me the child," he said, when he trusted himself to speak. Her eyes widened, just a little, before she controlled herself, and she stepped back, away.

"Give me the child," he said, again, savoring the irony. And indeed, he had gone through dangers, hardships, to reach her: time travel magic was volatile, and he risked his kingdom, by being here, and his work, if he could not return. Furthermore, he required that the girl return Underground, proof and anchor of her mother's faith. But just as before, when they had stood on opposite sides of this conflict, his true object was the woman; the child, while important, was nothing compared to her.

He stepped forward, and she stepped back, only to stop abruptly when her back hit the wall. She narrowed her eyes as he took another step, and he could sense her gathering energy, preparing to Transport away. His fists clenched of their own accord, but he forced himself to calm, to stillness. If she ran, he must follow her again. She must not run.

"Surely you are not such a coward," he said, unable to keep scorn from his voice and not truly desiring to do so. The words had the desired effect: she stopped her preparations. She must remember, as well as he did: she had been the one to teach him that disappearing without a word was not acceptable.

She had disappeared without a word, when she left him.

One more step closed the distance between them. She straightened, drawing back her shoulders, and looked right into his eyes. He reached out, to stroke the child's head, and when he touched her, her breathing deepened and she went as limp as a doll, nearly slouching off Sarah's shoulder.

"Take her to your brother," he commanded softly. "She will sleep until well into the morning."

She hesitated, looking between him and the door, her arms tightening around the little girl.

"Do  _not_  defy me," he bit out, letting a hint of his anger into his voice. She jumped, but met his eyes and nodded, slowly, once. She stepped around him, and he turned to follow the movement; she kept her eyes fixed on his face, backing towards the door, still cradling the child protectively. When she had gone, he relaxed, only a little, and allowed himself to looked around.

The room was uncomfortable, and so was the thought that he found it so. It was very Above, and very unlike the way she had decorated as he had seen in the past: not the childish dreams of her bedroom at her parents', nor the mismatched simplicity of the apartment she had lived in when she called him back, and certainly not the simple elegance of her rooms in the Castle. Those rooms changed, in color and trim, to suit the occupant, and thus could most firmly be considered a direct reflection of her tastes, but this room was nothing like any of those rooms.

Instead, it overflowed with the child.

A neat, low-set wooden crib sat against one wall, the sheets a colorful pattern of some cartoon animal; above it hung a mobile set with stars. He touched it, briefly, and it tingled with her magic. She had made this. She loved the stars, Below.

A dresser sat against the adjacent wall, topped with various baby items, some of which he recognized—Ciro had been young enough—but others whose function he could only guess. He tapped on one container: plastic. Mankind was truly inventive; this chain of hydrocarbons could be put to so many uses. Like the bracelet that Sarah gave to the dwarf. The light on the dresser flickered, and he brought himself back under control with an effort. She was not here with the dwarf.

No, what she had chosen was far worse. And yet, when she had seen him in the park...

_He had not expected her to sense his approach. She had been adept, Below, but Magic was different, here. Perhaps he had been less than subtle, seeing her embracing another man. And yet she does not hide herself, does not shy away; rather, she is pressed against him so quickly that it almost seems she had sensed him even before he arrived._

_Her softness, her scent, is nearly overwhelming. She is holding on to him, so tightly, as though she fears he might disappear. Was he not angry with her? Had she not left him? It has been only hours, but she holds him as though it has been months. Perhaps, for her, it has been; and they had been parted for many years, before the night she seduced him and departed._

Fury and need, both, still boiled beneath the surface; control was necessary. Control must be absolute. Weakness was unacceptable.

Only she had ever made him feel truly weak. He could almost hate her for it, if only he could ever hate her.

He circled the room, touching each wall, pulling magic through himself to Silence them, strengthening the spells that, it seemed, Sarah had already set in place. It would not do to break his promise to the boy, though to own the truth to himself, he had spoken from jealousy and the desire to cause pain. He could not permit himself to form expectations.

In addition to the crib and dresser, there was a rocking chair, a small closet that opened, messily, to show worn clothing in Sarah's size, a bookshelf piled with books—mostly bent and broken paperbacks—and a bed, large enough for two, though nothing to the Castle. He stroked the covers, lightly; her magic was here as well. Perhaps she had enlarged the original. But for whom?

Surely not the boy.

Perhaps the child?

Or maybe… maybe she had been waiting for him.

No. If she had been waiting for him, she would not have left in the first place. The thought stuck in his throat, unvoiced and bitter as wormwood.

His tour of the room ended at the window, and he stood looking out, into the city below. There were no stars but the Seven Thieves, low on the horizon. Did she miss home, and the stars Below?

But where was home? He could not let the next thought quite form, the one that might wonder if ever she had called the Underground home at all.

The front of the building opened to a large, busy, well-lit street, but this window looked down into a small cross-street, dark and dingy. As he watched, a ragged-looking man wandered aimlessly by, stumbling into the side of a building. A young woman crossed to avoid him; no doubt this was wise. Some might say that this corner of Humanity, this dirt and quiet danger, were reasons to despise them, but he could not call it so. The variety of Men was a part of their strength, and they were too many to all live like kings. Even his own people could not; hierarchy was necessary, Above and Below.

Was she happy, here?

He had sent her back, once; he could not let her go again. She had left him, under her own power, but she would not stay away. He could not permit it. He had warned her that he would not.

He needed her, like he needed magic, like he needed air. Available if not present, near if not in company, secure in presence if not in affection. It was terrifying, to need someone that much. That he could endure for over twelve hundred years, without her, but now that he had her, and so well….

The first time he had lost her, he had planned it. He had given her up, willingly, the attachment only partially formed, on the hope that someday there could be more. And if, after, he spent days Dreaming, and more days watching her, well, none knew but his Goblins, and they were not intelligent enough to recognize the change.

The second time he had lost her, he had seen it coming. He had gone easy on her, at first; he had wanted her to love the Underground, to seduce her dreaming heart with the promise of magic. He had thought it would be easy, and it very nearly had been, until she broke the Dream. When he saw for the first time that iron will, that keen mind, that saw through his best illusions as though they were made of the thinnest gauze. When that was done, he knew the game was over, the remaining steps in the dance a matter of form rather than necessity. Even then, he had begged her to stay. When she was gone, the world went black, until the first time she thought of him. Reassured that he had not been forgotten, he had lived for those moments, sweet torture and highest ecstasy.

The third time he had given her back, he had made no attempt to proceed as though nothing had changed. He had gone up to the Eyrie—he could not think of it otherwise, once she had Named it—and had Dreamed until he slept in the window, and woke, and Dreamed again. On and on, through endless days, unable to push her out of his mind even as he ignored her calling out for him. He could have gone to her; not right away, but not too long after she left, but he would not. She would be better there. She would be well. He might hear her, fleetingly; might drink in that pain like pleasure, might live, finally, within her. And when she was gone, so too would he follow, his life's burden laid down at last.

But she had come back to him. She had come back to him, and, fool that he was, he had allowed himself to believe that she really could understand. That she could choose him, his world, his life, with her eyes wide open. That ten years or a hundred or a thousand might pass, and she would still be his.

That was the pain of all of this. He could not give her up again, not without losing himself. He had already given everything he had, when he had let her go before. He could not give her up, but she could leave him without pain. She had demonstrated that she could go, that she could leave, without the expectation of seeing him again. She had done everything in her power to evade him; perhaps she had even hoped that this evasion would last. In the end, he still had no power over her. Not even love.

And she had every power over him.

He heard the door open, and turned towards it even before the conscious impulse to do so had quite entered his mind. Sarah paused in the open doorway, then stepped forward, slowly, closing the door behind her. She held her face carefully, perfectly blank, the human glamour she had worn before released to let her true face show. They did not lie to each other with illusions. Still, one thing he did regret: she had been easier to read, when she was human in truth.

Fury and pain and jealousy and loneliness burned in his blood as he looked her over, more intense than any had been alone; passion, banked for the sake of the child—and even for the sake of the boy—burned hotter now, having been repressed. He wanted to pull on his magic, and hers, and all that was nearby, and set them both on fire, that the pain might end; to immolate the whole building: a fitting funeral pyre for the last of the old gods. He wanted to chain her to a wall and beat her senseless—chain her to a wall and fuck her senseless—until she begged for mercy, until he could consider granting it, until he killed her or found freedom in release. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her, to make love to her until his mind went blank and the pain of losing her had drowned, utterly, in her touch. He wanted to fall on his knees at her feet, and beg her forgiveness for every imagined slight, if only she would never, never leave him again. He wanted to beg, once again, to be her slave.

He held himself still, with an effort. He could not speak.

Her eyes searched his face. He knew she could sense his battle to hold still, could see the fists clenched at his sides against the impulse to grab her, for good or ill; the tight muscles at the corner of his eyes that strained with the effort of keeping them open against instinctive, angry narrowing, against bone-deep, frantic sobs.

He waited, two full minutes. He knew that she counted the seconds, just as he did.

Then, gracefully, slowly, sweetly, she dropped to her knees, hands spreading wide in supplication. She bowed her head, and even her hold on her magic relaxed. Defenseless.

Defenseless.  _Mine_.

"Jareth," she whispered, so quietly he could hardly hear. "Jareth, forgive me."

He tightened his jaw, against speech; raised his head, against obeisance. Forgive her what? That which was requested must be named. They were silent, and still, as the seconds passed; another two minutes. No more than the blink of an eye, against twelve hundred years, but they stretched like eternity in that small, quiet room.

"I knew you would be angry," she continued, finally, her eyes still on the floor, "but—"

"Angry!" he interrupted, with a growl. She did not know; she truly did not know. In all her research, in all her reading, in all her questioning, she had never found the truth, even though he had told her. He had written it, in his letter all those years ago.  _I knew that only one course lay before me, though it lay against my very nature. If you return to me, I will never let you go._  "Angry," he repeated, quieter, shaking his head. He turned from her, seeking again the quiet, black night. He missed his Eyrie. The room was too bright, and the window too small, and the stars too dim, here Above.

He heard her move, knew she had raised her head to watch him.

"Anger is the least of it," he whispered. His head turned only slightly, so that he could see her from the corner of his eye.

She unfolded, rising gracefully to her feet. When he had first entered she had been fearful, but she was collected, now. He watched as she stepped forward carefully, one step, and then another, and another, until she stood just before him, and he found that he had turned to face her, unthinking.

"Jareth..." Her hand rose, and moved towards his face, but stopped short of actually touching, hovering just close enough to indicate intent. Her eyes sought his and held him, ensnaring him past the possibility of escape. Anger flared, and lust, and love, in turns, and soon it did not matter which was strongest, only that one be released before he was overcome.

"Jareth," she said again, so quietly it was barely even a whisper. Her eyes were filling now, the moonlight glinting off of tears that hesitated on the brink of falling. "Don't you know how much I missed you?"

Gentle and inexorable, her hand came down lightly on his cheek, and he bowed his head, his eyes closing, trembling on the edge of that simple touch.  _How much I missed you_. But she had gone, she had gone. Words were only words.

"I had to show you," she said, quietly. "I had to show you this was possible. And I couldn't ask, because I knew what you would say. But you can't keep repeating the old patterns. They will kill us both, in the end."

Her notebook.  _My Jareth, this I do for you_. He reached out, steadying himself with his hands on her hips, drew in a breath, and opened his eyes.

"What did you need to show me, Sarah? What is it that you want?"

"I want to stay here for the next twenty years and raise Ruth, until she's an adult, and has a chance to remain herself, Below. And then we'll both come home to you." One corner of her mouth lifted in a small smile. "Just like I promised when I left."

He stared at her, stunned.  _Come home to you_.  _Always_. And yet he did not want to allow this freedom: he did not want to be without her at all. No adopted child could mean so much. And how would she change, Above in those twenty years? She was as immortal now as he, true, but her mind was fluid still. Would she still keep her bargain, when the time was through? Would she still want to?

Himself, he could not have originated such a scheme. He did not want to be away from her so long. What did it say of her, that she could, that she did?

He had spent hundreds of years of loneliness, and then a handful of hope, a handful of hopeful despair, forty days of bliss, eight hundred of loss, and then, finally, twelve years of vindication. Of victory. Of a love he had never thought to know. He had told her their passion would wane, but that had been the expectation that their interests would diverge for a time, diminishing the time they spent in lovemaking, or even in conversation, even in company. Sleeping more often in separate beds. She had used his wish to return Below; he had never considered that she would desire otherwise than to stay.

His hands tightened, where he held her hips.

"Jareth, I know this isn't easy," she said quietly, when still he did not speak. "I know I'm… I know this isn't what you wanted. And it isn't what I planned, either, when I came back to you. But it's what I need to do."

He could say no. He was powerful enough to return her to the Underground against her will, though it would be more difficult than it would have been when she was human. The Transfer would exhaust them both; she would not be able to leave again for some time. He could convince her to stay: if not with words, then with magic; if not with magic, then with chains.

"Why?" His voice, and his will, balanced on a knife-edge.

"For you!" she exclaimed. "For us. Jareth, don't you see? Ciro was the start, and that didn't work, but this can. I mean, I was sorry to lose him, because I loved him, but I was just as sorry to lose the chance he represented. Together, we've proved that Men can gain magic; since that's the case, you don't have to be alone anymore!  _We_  don't have to be alone! I love you, and I love the life we have Below, but as long as it's only the two of us, it isn't enough, not if we really want a chance to preserve the dreams of Man beyond the span of your endurance."

He stared at her, stunned. He had expected her to miss her world. He had expected her to desire children. He had expected her to tire of his company. He had warned her against all those things, believed them conquered, and then feared their return. This answer... he had not foreseen.

"Ruth belongs to the Labyrinth already," she said softly, seriously. "I'd never take her away forever. I didn't help her mother with the Labyrinth. I wouldn't. I'm just asking that you consider letting her be more than just another goblin."

For a moment, he saw her vision, the possibilities such a proposal presented for the future of Mankind. Logically, he should agree; any burden was easier shared, and if it worked, it would change everything. But the heart could not live on cold logic, and it would still mean twenty years—at least fifteen thousand days in the Labyrinth—alone, and the prospect of another confrontation at the end of it. Twenty years to love her family—twenty years with the boy and the child, and perhaps others she had known—could alter all her good intentions.

He was not one who could stand and say, "I love you," and turn for the door in the next moment. He could not propose twenty years of separation.

She could, and she could do so while claiming that she did not love him less.

"It's up to you." She licked her lip, and stroked his cheek again. "I had to come, to shock you into seeing this possibility. But now if you tell me no, I won't fight. I will return with you."

He opened his mouth, not yet knowing what he would say, but before he could speak, she leaned up and kissed him full on the mouth.

He reacted without thought, tightening his grip on her hips as her hand on his cheek ran back into his hair and her opposite arm came around his waist. After a moment's stunned joy at holding her again, he wrapped both arms around her and picked her up, spinning her to press her against the wall. Her ankles locked behind his back.  _Mine, oh, mine!_  There was a point, he had considered when first they came together, where words failed, when they were inadequate. Though a master of languages, there was no one phrase with which he could express his possessive anger better than the harsh press of his weight holding her in place, nor his lust better than the nipping kisses he placed on her lips, nor his love better than the gentle hand teasing her breast, stroking her waist. It was the same for her: the suppleness of her body told him of her submission, her hand twisted and pulling in his hair told him of her desire, and the tears that fell, now, silently, tasted of her love.

His mouth left hers, following the track of her tears down the edge of her face, down her throat, and he bit down hard, making her arch and cry out. His hands cupped her rear, grinding them together, and Sarah threw her head back, moaning low.

_Always_.

He returned to her mouth, kissing her again, but gentler, his urgency less now, and finally he ended it, and just held her close around her back until she unlocked her ankles, sliding down his body until her feet touched the floor.

"Jareth?" She pushed away and looked up at him, frowning, uncertainty layered over lust in her eyes.

"I cannot answer now." He pulled her close, and she came gratefully, snuggling into him as he laid his cheek on top of her head. "You considered this for years, did you not?" He could feel her nod. "Allow me at least a little time."

"Of course." She pulled back enough to take his head in her hands and kiss him, gently, once. "We have a few days before you must return, don't we?"

"Yes."

"Then, for now… I missed you. Come to bed?"

She took his hands and drew him down onto the mattress, and pushed him back gently, until he lay beneath her, vulnerable. And then her hands were everywhere, gentle, stroking, pushing his shirt aside to touch his bare skin. He began to sit up, to remove it, but she pushed his hands away and did it herself, gentle and considerate, coming closer to kiss his exposed skin.

While Sarah walked the Labyrinth, while she stayed away, he had imagined how he would lavish her with attention, when someday she returned to him. This gentleness, this thoroughness, this was that worship, and he its object, and not the worshipper. Yet still it was that dream completed, together and in love.

Sarah knelt at his feet, soft, sweet fingers teasing, tugging at his boots, the slight tingle of her magic, necessary to remove them, a tantalizing reminder of what was to come. Her touch was love, was joy, was strength; overwhelming and, he realized in a small, clear space in his mind, intended to be. Yet there was no rush: he had time enough here, pulled away from his own time, that there was no need. They could savor each other now, could rest in the affection of the moment without regard to the discord his final decision might bring. She brushed his trousers away with another whisper of magic, and planted a kiss on the inside of his knee, her face pressed to his skin.

"Oh, I missed you," she whispered, her lips teasing on his inner thigh. Her lips glided over his balls, and her tongue traced up his length, and he bucked against the pressure of her hands, holding his hips down.

Open.

Trust. He trusted her.

"Sarah, I…." He put a hand in her hair, trailing off with a groan as she swallowed him down.

"No," she said, releasing him. "Don't answer now. Think about it. You were right; you should."

He pulled her by the hand until she lay beside him, and kissed her, her clothing melting under his touch. "I will. But not now."

* * *

Later, he lay quiet on his back, Sarah cuddled into his side, her head on his shoulder. Her hand twisted idly in the long hair at the nape of his neck, and he stroked her shoulder, at peace with her for the first time in a long time, in spite of the answer he had yet to give her, the decision he had yet to make.

"I will leave you now." He kissed the top of her head, and made to rise, lowering her to the pillow.

"Jareth?"

"I shall not go Below, but I must… I must consider what you have said, and I cannot do that here."

"There's one more thing." She put a hand on his arm, and he turned his head to look at her. "I don't want you to be alone. So if you let me stay here with Ruth, you need someone else to keep you company. Not… not like this…" she thrust against his hip, indicating their nakedness, "but for your mind."

"Who else could there be?" He could not take a random person off the street, and he would not want to.

"Isn't it obvious?" She raised herself up on an elbow, looking into his eyes, but he could not think who she might mean. She must have seen it in his face, because she shook her head, then leaned in to whisper her next words in his ear.

"You can take Toby."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "Seven Thieves" is an old Slavic peasant name for the seven bright stars that form the Big Dipper. All seven stars together were also called the "Great Wagon."
> 
> The chapter title comes from the song "Forgiveness Waltz" by Jonathan Rundman.


	17. Below, Below, Below

_Friday, July 22, 2011, 9:02 PM_

The door closed behind the Goblin King with a thud that was too loud, far too loud. Toby let his hands fall to the floor, and for a moment, it was all he could do to just breathe. He clenched his fingers in the carpet, fingernails catching in the cheap fibers, and used the action to ground himself: pressure on his fingertips, and air moving in and out of his lungs, and oh God, that was the Goblin King, and Toby had never taken him seriously, and what the  _fuck_ , why hadn't Sarah  _warned_  him, why had he let this into his life, this crazy terrifying truth that such a being as the Goblin King existed in the universe?

In and out. In and out.

Slowly, his heart rate began to slow, his breathing to return to normal. Sarah wouldn't let him be hurt. She  _wouldn't_. She loved him. She lived here. She wanted to learn to play video games.

She might need him.

He set his feet and pushed, using the wall to raise himself up, and regained his feet just as Sarah's door opened. He blinked a moment, centering himself, and when he opened his eyes, Sarah stood before him, holding Ruthie in her arms.

 _She will look at you with those green eyes you find so beguiling…._ He waited.

"I—" she stopped and looked down. "I need you to watch her, tonight. I know I've never asked you to do that before, but…. It shouldn't be hard. She will sleep through." She met his eyes briefly, then looked away, guilt clear in her face.

"You used magic on her? You said that was harmful!" He was momentarily distracted from the  _why_  by the sheer fact of the  _what_. She'd never put Ruthie to sleep with magic before, even when the child was driving her crazy.

"I… He did," she admitted, and Toby clenched his teeth, anger again surging over fear. He was going to  _kill_  the fucking Goblin King, if this hurt his girl. "But it's okay—rarely. Doing it all the time would be bad, and I didn't want to get in the habit." This time, when she looked at him she met his eyes and held. "Please, Toby, I…." She broke off, and held his eyes, and hers were so very strange, and wild; but he could see love and worry and compassion… and then she turned from him, just her head, looking back towards her room, with a look on her face that he'd never seen before.  _I miss the fucking Goblin King_  was there, but so was hope, and fear, and a sort of burning fire for which he had no name.  _I'm still… his. And he's mine._  It seemed like a lifetime ago that she'd told him that.

And he was a fucking idiot fool, a stupid child, a heartsick boy, but he couldn't do anything but take Ruth in his arms, where she settled, a dead weight pulling at his shoulders. He cuddled her close, a comfort in loneliness.

_You will find yourself unable to say her nay._

"Sarah," he said, when she started to walk away from him, and she stopped, but didn't look back.

"Yes?"

"Are… are you okay?"

She waited a moment before answering. "I believe I will be."

"What are you going to do?"

"Talk to him."

"Sarah…."

"Toby, I need to go."

"Sarah, wait." He grabbed her arm, spinning her forcibly around, and she shook him off, angrily. He swallowed. "Will you still be here, tomorrow?"

The anger in her eyes faded, and she smiled gently. "I hope so."

He couldn't think of anything else to say to make Sarah come back to him, tell him more about what she was thinking and what her Fucking Goblin King might do. All he could do was let her go and cuddle Ruthie, hold her close. Released, Sarah moved away from him, back towards her door. When she reached it, she looked back at him, still standing there like a statue, and smiled, briefly, before disappearing inside.

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and shifted Ruthie closer still. She was very warm, against his chest; comforting, but not the warmth he wanted. The warmth he wanted had just walked away, back to her Goblin King.

He swallowed hard, willing down the tears that wanted to come into his eyes.  _I miss the fucking Goblin King_  had diminished in frequency, but not in intensity, over their time together. Ever since they had fought in April, it had almost disappeared, driven back by her newfound interests and friends; by Ruth's growth; and, he hoped, by his love.

 _Those green eyes you find so beguiling_ …. Tears welled in his eyes, and he dashed them away, angry. Was she fucking playing him? Was that all this had ever been, some sick game? Play on his loneliness, his weakness, make him fucking  _love_  her just so she could use him for a little while, a convenient source of the roof over her head and the clothes on her back, until her goblin lover showed up and claimed her?

Oh God, if it was all a lie….

He thought back to all the times she had smiled at him, the way she'd leaned on him, the way she'd been so moved, that first week, by his every friendly gesture. _I'm glad I got the chance to meet you all grown up_. And the fairy godmother stuff. And the way she'd smiled at him when he held Ruth the first time. The way she'd thrown herself into his arms and let him swing her around when he told her she could stay. All the secrets she'd told him, everything they'd shared. The way they cuddled up to watch television. The way she watched for his moods and always cheered him up.

He'd doubted before, but he'd always been able to talk himself out of the doubt. But now….

If it was a lie, if it was all an act, she deserved a fucking Oscar.

If it was all a lie, if he'd been played, he'd—there'd be—there was—no. Can't even think it. She might never love him like he dreamed, but he'd be damned if he'd believe she never loved him at all.

* * *

He laid Ruth in the center of his bed and went to brush his teeth. Forcing his focus onto that mundane task cleared his mind a little further, and he pushed down, down, burying worry, and fear, and resentment.

Sarah loved him. She must.

_It is I who will feel her hands, her lips…._

He didn't want to think it.

_Her lips, her breasts, her arousal…._

The mocking mental voice even maintained the Goblin King's intonations. And Sarah….

_I'm still… his. And he's mine._ _And if—when—he does come… well, then we'll see._

He spat into the sink and rinsed his mouth, and choked on his next exhale, and when he straightened and looked into the mirror there were tears standing in his eyes.

_All there is is this—this petty, small world, that I can't be part of because nothing here will last._

They had never really spoken about what would happen, if the Goblin King came. She had never said anything more than, "We'll see," and he had never pressed.  _Why_  hadn't he pressed? They should have talked about this. There should have been a plan.

He ducked his head, and splashed water on his face, shocking away the tears and the worry.

The towel was soft, and he suddenly remembered that they used to be kind of prickly, because he'd never invested in anything nice. Sarah had done this.

In his room, Ruth had scrunched her way up the bed, her head almost resting on the pillow he usually used. He looked out into the living room, where her Pack 'N Play was loosely folded and leaning into the corner, then looked back at Ruth on his bed.

She looked comfortable, there.

His bed was a queen, and was set up against the wall. Surely she'd be safe, sleeping there, with his body between her and the edge? And… and if he slept on Sarah's side, at least part of the Goblin King's prophecy—the only part he, Toby, could truly control—wouldn't come true.

He slipped on a t-shirt and some boxers, and pulled the covers back, easing them gently out from under the sleeping child. He plugged in his phone, lay down, and flicked off the bedside light.

Faint light still came in from the windows, the omnipresent city glow—and maybe also the moon—giving just enough light that he could see Ruth, scrunched up against his pillow, her knees folded under and her butt in the air. He reached out to her, and ran a hand over her head, and closed his eyes.

Sarah would go nowhere without the child. So long as Ruth was here, the story wasn't over.

He lay there, in the dark, and tried to remember that. Eventually, the child's gentle breathing lulled him to sleep.

* * *

He woke to the smell of coffee and something hard and poky digging into the small of his back. He rolled away from the uncomfortable Thing, and just barely saved himself from falling out of the bed with a hand to the nightstand. Right. The edge was much closer than normal, because he'd let Ruth sleep in the bed with him. And, he realized as he rolled over gingerly, it had been her feet attempting to burrow through to his spine.

Blinking, he brought the clock into focus. There was coffee, so Sarah was up (and still here, which was a relief, even though he hadn't  _really_  been worried), but she was an early riser, and Ruth was still asleep.

9:21.

Ruth was still asleep.

 _He_  had stayed asleep.  _Why_  had he stayed asleep? Twelve-hour nights happened, now, but not often, and not when he wasn't exhausted. Had he somehow been influenced, like Ruth had? Clearly it was more than a simple thing, making someone sleep, if Ruth had been down all night and was still going.

But the apartment smelled of coffee, and that meant Sarah was here. If not for his unusual wake-up call, he might have been tempted to pretend that last night had been a dream, that  _He_  hadn't shown up at all.

Still, Sarah was here.

He picked Ruth up and moved her to the center of the bed, where she settled without stirring. Then, he stood, and stretched, and opened his door.

Sarah sat at the kitchen table, looking down into a mug clasped tightly in her hands. She looked up when he entered, and gave him a little smile. "Good morning."

"Morning." He looked around. The kitchen was empty. So was the living room. Sarah's bedroom door was open.

"He isn't here," Sarah said, when he looked down at her again. "Can I make you breakfast?"

Toby poured himself coffee and sat down at the table. "Where is he?"

"I don't know." Her voice sounded strange, and he looked up from stirring in his sugar. He had expected to see good old  _I miss the fucking Goblin King_  in her face, but… she looked  _happy_. Peaceful. Content. She wasn't torn, wasn't sad, wasn't afraid, wasn't anything but here, at his table, with him, without the Goblin King.

"Sarah, I…."

"Want pancakes?" She smiled at him again.

"I… yeah. Thanks."

* * *

By the time he emerged from the shower he was walking on air. True, Sarah hadn't said that the Goblin King was gone for good, but she'd sat with him and answered his questions over breakfast—at least until Ruth woke up and demanded attention—and he'd been letting his imagination pursue all the hopes that he'd kept bottled up last night. Despite his boasts, the Goblin King hadn't stayed all night—had in fact left sometime in the early hours of the morning, Sarah had told him, still smiling. That smile, more than anything else, let him throw off the memory of gloved steel at his throat, the rasping threatening voice, and imagine that now they would go on as they always had, happy and together and whole, without that phantom presence always on their heels.

He threw on jeans and a t-shirt, running a hand through his hair to make sure it was reasonably well-ordered. The sun streaming in the window promised a beautiful day; maybe they could all go to a park, together? Ruth was becoming more and more of a person instead of a lump, and Sarah would like that, for all three of them to be together, now that the Goblin King was gone.

He was humming almost before he'd realized it, something about the cadence of the words  _Goblin King_  stirring a memory of a song.  _He's gone where the goblins go, below—below—below._

Delighted, and still trying to place exactly what he was singing, he threw open his bedroom door.  _Ding, dong the Goblin King is—_

Sitting on his couch.

Toby stopped in the doorway, breath caught in his throat, all those happy dreams crumbling to dust.  _"Where is he?" "I don't know."_ If he had returned to the Underground, she would have know where he was. And then Toby, jealous, had asked about when he left—useless question—and Ruth had woken up and distracted them before he got around to "do you know if he's coming back."

He closed his eyes a moment, schooling his features. She had answered his questions  _truthfully_ , but not really  _honestly_. She had to have known what he was really asking, but she had answered the letter instead of the intent, and he had been foolish enough to let her.  _Idiot_. Hadn't he played this game often enough for her, with strangers? He knew how it worked, and yet he'd let himself be taken in.

When he opened his eyes, the Goblin King was watching him, intently, as though he could see straight into his soul. Based on last night… perhaps he could. Then he smiled, and leaned back into the couch, crossing one ankle on his knee, his self-assurance claiming not just the couch, but the entire room. "Tobias," he said softly. "Good morning."

"Morning," Toby said stiffly. He sat down in an armchair and reached for his laptop, more for something to do than actual need. Around the edge of the screen, he saw the Goblin King pick something up off the side table, holding it casually in one hand. Ignoring the man, he logged into the computer and opened his email, but as he'd just checked it from his phone in the bedroom, there was really nothing there. Facebook also failed to provide a distraction; these days it seemed to be nothing but pictures of happily coupled friends on exotic vacations, enjoying everything he didn't have. He had just called up Twitter, desperate enough to search for trending hashtags, when Sarah entered, Ruth on her hip.

He snapped his laptop shut, shoving it to the side, and Sarah stopped where she stood, mouth closing on whatever she had been about to say. As he stood up and moved towards his sister, the Goblin King, in the corner of his eye, lowered whatever was in his hands and turned to watch.

Sarah raised her brows, and then took two steps forwards and deposited Ruth in the Goblin King's lap. To Toby's surprise, the Goblin King accepted the child readily, and she pushed herself up against his chest, grabbing at his strange, wispy hair as he smiled at her, oddly warm.

Nonplussed, Toby turned to follow Sarah as she moved away, towards the kitchen. "Good with children" had not been anywhere in his mental image of the man Sarah had so often mentioned. True, there had been Ciro, but he had been Sarah's responsibility.

Then again, the man did steal children for a living. Charming them probably came with the territory. Uneasy, he looked back at the couch, frowning.

"He isn't going to hurt her," Sarah said with a small laugh. "She's already his."

"She—what?"

"I took her away Above," Sarah shrugged, "but I couldn't—and wouldn't—break her ties to the Underground. We need her. That's part of the reason I couldn't return her to her mother, like you said I should do when we met."

What had Sarah told him, then? Something about Ruth's mother thinking she was dead? January seemed impossibly far away: a different life, not a matter of months.

He closed his eyes, lips pressed together, reentering himself. Sarah was distracting him again: he had been angry and now he was mostly just confused.

"You should have told me he wasn't gone for good," he said, calling up as much of his leftover anger as he could. He turned to face her directly, standing between her and the pair on the sofa.

Sarah's eyes flicked over his shoulder, and then back to Toby's face. "I decided not to."

"Why?"

"I wanted him here for this conversation, if I could; I would have told you, had you asked."

"Yeah," Toby rolled his eyes. "Already figured that one out. God, Sarah, you—this fucking dancing. Does it ever stop?"

She smiled, then, a little sadly. "Maybe someday I won't have anything to conceal."

"Well, what was it this time?"

"I wanted you both here for this conversation." She glanced over his shoulder again, and he took a step closer, filling her visual space. "Jareth and I have something to tell you together."

He dropped his head. This was it, then: exactly what he'd feared. Why hadn't she just left in the night—why make this harder? "You're leaving."

"No," she said, and, wait,  _no?_

" _What?"_

"No,  _we_  aren't leaving. I'm staying here, with Ruth, to give her a chance to grow up."

"I—that's, that's great, Sarah!" He smiled. She was staying.

"And you will go with Jareth."

It took a second for that to sink in, and then the anger was back, stronger and sharper and painful.

" _No_."

"Toby—"

 _"_ No!"

"If you would just listen—"

"I said  _no_."

"But if—"

 _"_ Fuck you, Sarah."

Toby's head hit the wall with a crack. Fucking Goblin King, Toby hadn't even seen him move, and now he had Toby pinned against the wall, one arm across his chest. The other, somewhat incongruously, held Ruth, who looked a little windblown and surprised by her sudden translocation. Had the man actually teleported? Her face scrunched up, which might mean she would cry, and—

"You will respect your sister," the Goblin King said coldly, and Toby focused on him again.

"Jareth." Sarah spoke softly, her tone moderated from the frustrated anger of a moment ago. He could just see her, out of the corner of his eye, as she collected Ruth from the Goblin King's grasp, soothing the child's blooming distress. He couldn't turn to look at her, though: the pressure of the Goblin King's arm had not abated, and he couldn't help but keep his attention on the threat.

Even if Sarah might be a threat too. She had distracted him, had  _lied_  to him in all but the most technical sense, and now she wanted to send him to the  _fucking Labyrinth_  that she had rescued him from as a child? What sort of twisted, hurtful, bullshit game was she even playing?

The Goblin King turned his eyes towards Sarah, and Toby relaxed, just a touch, rolling his head on his neck but not doing anything to fight against that more-than-human strength. No point to it: he'd have to wait on an opportunity where he could use surprise, if he wanted to take the Goblin King down.

Sarah and the Goblin King looked at each other for a moment more, and then the Goblin King dropped his restraining arm, but did not move away. "Nothing will change," he said, to Sarah.

"No. What's said is said," she answered, and he nodded, then turned cold, emotionless eyes to meet Toby's again. After a few seconds, Toby looked away.

_Fucking Goblin King._

When he looked up, the Goblin King was gone.

Toby reached up and rubbed at his chest. "He likes doing that. Pushing me around. Did it yesterday too."

"What did you say?"

"Why do you think I said something?" Toby exclaimed, pushing away from the wall and pacing across the room.

"You did, didn't you?" He glared at her, and then turned away. "I know you, Toby. You make decisions with your heart; it can be admirable, but it means sometimes you don't think before you speak. You know he's dangerous. Do you gain anything from pushing his buttons?"

"What the—yes. Yes! Sarah, he's  _the bad guy_. You're  _supposed_  to resist him. It's why you left him the first place!"

"If you really think that, then you have never listened to me at all."

"You just can't see it." He turned back towards her, arms crossed. "You just made him all rosy because he kept you. It's that… that prisoners loving their jailers thing. It's not real. You gave up your whole life—you  _left me_ —for a lie!"

Sarah adjusted Ruth to one side, watching him calmly. "It's called Stockholm Syndrome, and you don't know what you're talking about."

"You've been talking about  _him_  and the Labyrinth since you arrived. When you got here you were mad at him. You wanted to stay away from him. And he comes back and suddenly you just do whatever he wants?" He shook his head. "I really don't know what else to call it, or—or—" his voice broke a bit, "how he could convince you to send me back there. You fought for me. Doesn't that mean anything?" And fuck, now his voice was trembling. He blinked hard, forcing anger back over the threatening tears.

"It means everything, Toby," Sarah said softly. "But what it means most of all is that he could never take you without my consent. It was so far outside of his thoughts that he was shocked when I suggested it."

"I—" Wait—what? "When  _you_  suggested it?" Shock made his voice soft, a match to hers.

"Yes. Listen to Jareth, he will help you."

"He—" Toby scoffed.

"He  _will_ , as he loves  _me._ "

He looked into her eyes, into the almost-familiar alien beauty of her true face, and could read nothing there. Had he ever known her at all?

"I don't want to go," he whispered.

"You don't, now," she said softly, "but I'm not giving you a choice. I love you, Toby." She came close, and cupped his cheek in her hand, and he could not draw away. "This way, I might get to keep you." She pulled her hand away and stepped back, gathering Ruth close. "I've told you so much, Toby. Remember. I love you."

He stared, for a long moment, but before he could form a reply, strong hands gripped his shoulders and  _pulled_ , and the world went black.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Toby is paraphrasing is, of course, "Ding Dong the Witch is Dead" from The Wizard of Oz. The chapter title is from the same source.


End file.
